


Wired for Struggle

by wildrun



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex and Forrest date, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Vomiting, Discussions of child past child abuse, Eventual Malex, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kyle is an amazing friend, M/M, Max stays dead, Michael and Maria do not get togehter, Michael works on himself, Unreliable Narrator, and learns to be a friend, discussions of alcohol abuse, friendships, isobel is not pregnant, lots of angsty Michael, michael POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildrun/pseuds/wildrun
Summary: With his life falling apart, Michael spirals and pushes Alex, and everyone else away. Fortunately for him, there are people in his life who won't let him stay in the hole he's digging for himself. And as he slowly figures out how to turn his life around, he learns how to be a friend, and what it means to love someone more than himself.
Relationships: Michael Guerin & Alex Manes, Michael Guerin & Kyle Valenti, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 103
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _"You’re imperfect, and you’re wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging." — Brene Brown._
> 
> I wouldn't call this a "fix-it" necessarily, but it will definitely address some things that canon hasn't. It'll be more AU as it moves into season 2 territory because there's just no way in hell I could keep track of that many plot lines. 
> 
> **WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH:** that's Max. He's staying dead, folks.

He’d told Max and Isobel that they should wait before trying to deal with Rosa’s body. Wait for things to settle down… give them the opportunity to be normal for at least a little while.

But as Michael stepped out of the cave and back out into the bright New Mexican sun, he realized that he had no idea what normal was. How could he chase something he wasn’t even sure he would recognize?

His mom was dead, and Noah had turned out to be an alien serial killer - _and a real asshole_. 

In the last 24 hours he’d been stabbed, and healed. He’d watched Max kill Noah _with lightning_ , and he’d helped him move the body. His hand had been healed - no. Max had stolen a piece of him by taking away the evidence of the past that hadn’t been his to take. He’d found Noah’s secret cave, and in it, the preserved body of Rosa Ortecho. And, he’d just barely managed to convince Max not to do something colossally stupid about it.

Now, Max was… probably off to go make out with Liz, Isobel had insisted that she wanted to go home and be alone for a while, and Michael… Michael was at a loss. 

He blinked, and realized with a start that he was already halfway to the junkyard, having begun driving on autopilot. He rubbed a weary hand down his face. What he needed was to finally get some sleep. 

But he knew _that_ wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

For now, he’d settle for a hot shower and a change of clothes. Though that thought died a quick and painless death when he pulled into the junkyard and spotted Alex waiting for him.

 _Come back tomorrow - we’ll talk then_.

He stumbled a little getting out of the truck, catching himself on the front bumper as his brain sluggishly tried to remember how to make his legs work again. “Shit… ‘sit tomorrow already?”

Alex came around the truck. “Guerin… are you- are you drunk?”

He clapped Alex on the shoulder. “No, but that’s an excellent idea.” He grimaced as his legs decided to shuffle over to the trailer when he’d wanted to stride. Fuck today, honestly. 

He was really beginning to feel the bruises from his fight with Noah. Of course, Max hadn’t thought to heal _those_. 

Alex kept up with him easily. “What the hell happened?”

He held the door to the airstream open for Alex, gesturing for him to head inside before following him up the steps. “Uh… let’s see... how caught up were you?”

Michael flopped down onto the bench that doubled as his bed, and Alex took a seat nearby. “Well… you know my mother’s dead, ...did you know that Roswell’s serial killer was actually a fourth alien? An alien that’s been mind-controlling Isobel off and on for the last 20 years? Oh, and Noah’s an alien, by the way. _WAS_ , I guess I should say. Because Max killed him last night. _With lightning_ \- which is new. We moved the body so that when the police eventually find him they’ll assume it was just a regular lightning strike. Oh, and when Isobel and I went looking this morning for the evil bastard’s hideout, we found a cave with Rosa Ortecho’s body preserved inside a pod. Apparently, he was obsessed with her. And Max healed my fucking hand because he’s an asshole and his answer to ‘people will find out’ was ‘It’s Roswell’ as if that’s supposed to-” he broke off suddenly at a thumb running down his cheek, wiping at wetness he hadn’t even realized was there.

He refocused his eyes, which had been staring at the trailer ceiling, and Alex’s face swam into view. “What…”

“God, Guerin that’s… “

“A lot? Yeah, it’s been a hell of a night. And day.”

“Sit up for a second.” Alex squeezed in behind Michael and drew him into his arms.

“I thought you wanted to talk.” He felt a hand run down his arm and back up again in gentle strokes.

“It can wait. Just let me be here right now, okay?”

“I’m not gonna sleep. There’s no way I could…”

“No, I get it. We’ll just sit here. Just for a while.”

Michael frowned at nothing. “I need to change, at least.”

But as Alex was loosening his grip on him so he could get up and do just that, his whole body stiffened as his head exploded with pain. Squeezing his eyes shut, he saw the cave again. Noah’s cave - but Rosa wasn’t in the pod where they’d left her; she was on the floor under Max’s glowing hand.

“No! No, no, no… he-he… shit, I need-" He scrambled off the bench and onto the floor, already getting his legs under him, ready to claw his way to the door.

“Michael, wait! What’s going on?”

“It’s Max… he’s at the cave again… oh god, he’s trying to heal Rosa...I gotta...I gotta get there.”

Alex was up and shouldering past him towards the door before he could protest. “I’ll drive, just tell me where it is.”

The day ended even worse than it’d started, which was saying something. Rosa was alive, but Max was dead. At Isobel’s frantic insistence, they’d tucked him into Noah’s pod, completely ignoring the fact that the only one of them who’d ever been able to heal someone was Max, and the only one who’d ever been able to _resurrect_ anyone was Max juiced up on lightning.

When Alex dropped him off again at the airstream, he went straight for his cooler. He couldn’t sleep… he might never sleep again, but he could pass out. 

And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

He was halfway through the first beer when he noticed that Alex was still there, sitting on the other side of the fire pit just watching him. “I’m good here. You don’t have to stay.”

“You’re about as far from good as I’ve ever seen you, Guerin.”

He scoffed, cracking open another bottle, this time something much stronger. “Well then go ahead and watch. It’s about to get a lot worse.”

Whether it was from the exhaustion, the fact that he wasn’t even sure when he’d last eaten, or a combination of the two, Michael got his wish before he’d even finished the bottle.

Inexplicably, he woke up on his bed. He was still dressed, minus his boots, and on a nearby counter sat a glass of water and a couple of aspirin next to a few cold slices of toast.

He sat up to take the aspirin and noticed a note on a scrap of paper that read, “Had to get to work. Text me when you’re up. - A”

Michael shook his head - slowly, because it was pounding. He felt dirty… and not just because he was going on three days now in the same clothes. It felt like his filth went all the way to his soul, tainting everything he touched. He had absolutely nothing to offer someone like Alex.

Nothing but pain and destruction. For both of them.

He found his phone nearby and sent, “Going to see Isobel.” Then, “thanks.”

Isobel was on her back patio, staring at some breakables she’d lined up on a table. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Quiet… I’m focusing…”

Suddenly one of them - a delicate glass figurine - exploded.

Isobel turned to him with a satisfied smirk. “Max was right. We’re capable of more.” She took a sip of acetone and turned back to the table.

“So you’re just gonna sit here and break all your stuff?”

She turned back. “Hell, no. This isn’t my stuff; these are things _he_ gave me. Trinkets for his plaything. And I’m going to destroy them all.”

Another piece of glass cracked, and Isobel paused, holding a hand to her head. “I don’t know how you do this, it’s exhausting.”

“Okay well,” he grabbed her by the elbow and tugged upwards. “Come on, how about you take a little break now.”

She finally relented, allowing him to lead her inside. He deposited her at the kitchen table and went to the refrigerator. “Can’t explode shit with your brain on an empty stomach. That’s the first rule.”

He found various deli meats and cheese and brought them over to the table along with a package of bread and a couple plates. “So have you called the sheriff to report him missing yet?”

“Yep, this morning.”

Michael nodded, pretending to concentrate on making a sandwich instead of saying anything else. What was there to say, anyway? Another death, another body… seemed like every time they were almost ready to crawl out of the last pit, they’d trip and fall right into another.

He was so tired of moving bodies.

“His heart is shredded. There’s no way he’s coming back.”

Liz’s mouth dropped open to protest, even as Michael showed her the unmistakable images. “Maybe…”

But Michael was just _done._ Max had made his choice: He’d picked Liz. He’d picked her family over his own. He’d sacrificed himself - _on purpose_ \- to save Rosa. And Michael didn’t believe for one second that Max hadn’t known what it would cost. Max had felt himself tearing apart, but he’d still pushed through it to resurrect Rosa. 

After everything. After all his bullshit about how they were family. All his bullshit about how he felt Michael’s pain and suffered alongside him.

“He chose this, Liz! This is what he fucking wanted!” _And he didn’t give a shit about me or Iz_ , he added in his mind. 

Liz shook her head, tears running down her face. “But Isobel said she’d practice… she said she can already do some of what you can do. Maybe she’ll be able to-”

“To what? To kill herself to bring Max back? Fuck that. And fuck him.”

Michael stormed out, not even caring that he’d left Liz crying next to Max’s body in the pod. 

From there he crawled into a bottle and didn’t bother crawling out again until the day of the funeral. 

Though maybe it didn’t really count as crawling out since he showed up to the funeral half-drunk.

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if they were really mourning Noah. But Isobel had decided that since it’d be her first appearance in public after Noah’s death - and Max’s disappearance - it’d be the perfect time to start disseminating their lie. They’d decided - _they_ , being Isobel and Liz - that the story would be that Liz had dumped Max, and Max had fled town in a storm of angst and tears.

Which was stupid. Anyone who’d known Max very well would know that if Liz had ever dumped him, he would’ve just followed her all over town sighing dramatically and gazing at her longingly through windows like a damn creep.

The funeral itself was rough. Isobel stood in front of everyone eulogizing her abuser as if she were devastated that he’d died. But it’d gotten _really_ hard when she’d met his eyes across the chapel and suddenly Isobel had become truly emotional, talking about her loss in a way that left no dry eyes in the room. They’d both known that she’d been talking about Max.

He almost skipped the reception at Isobel’s house. It wasn’t as if Mr. and Mrs. Evans were expecting him, or would even understand him showing up. In fact, he almost convinced himself to head back out to finish getting shit-faced. But he’d promised Isobel he’d attend to help her gauge the crowd’s reaction after she and Liz put on their show.

People seemed to buy it, like Isobel had said they would. Most people who knew the Evans family had known Max was head over heels for Liz. None of them had known him well enough to know that he’d never run away from her.

As he was leaving, Liz came out to say goodbye. She’d been offered a job somewhere in California, and she was taking Rosa with her. Of course. Because they still got to have lives.

Michael had no doubt that she’d loved Max, that she was heartbroken by his death. But at the same time, fuck her. She got her sister back. She got to move on to bigger and better things while Michael and Isobel stayed behind to clean up the mess while dealing with this wound that felt like it’d never heal.

Though, if Michael were honest, maybe it was what they deserved after what they’d done. Maybe this was their penance for ruining the Ortechos a decade ago. A life for a life. A family for a family.

When he woke up the next day and found Alex’s guitar sitting just inside the door to his trailer, he couldn’t do much more than stare dumbly for a few minutes. Hangovers were a bitch, and it was way too early for him to try to decipher why Alex had decided to bring him a guitar suddenly.

A glance at his phone told him that “way too early” was actually one in the afternoon, but still. 

He chugged a little acetone to take the edge off the headache, changed, and then grabbed the guitar and headed to see Alex before he could talk himself out of it. He hadn’t been avoiding him, exactly. Or at least not any more than he’d been avoiding the rest of the world. But he wasn’t looking forward to what he knew he had to do. Years ago, Alex had told him that he didn’t want to be with him if he were wasting his life and at this point… Michael wasn’t sure his life was anything _but_ a waste. 

Alex was too good, too kind to give him the cold shoulder - even when he clearly deserved it. Michael knew he’d have to be the one to sever things between them in a way that Alex would understand was permanent.

It was better that way.

When he pulled into the driveway, Alex was sat in front of his house seeming oblivious to the world as he listened to whatever was playing in his earbuds and wrote in a notebook in his lap. 

Michael didn’t want to startle him, so he came around his side, depositing the guitar case in clear view to let Alex know he was there. 

“You must feel really safe here...back to the driveway, you don’t even have your leg on. Someone could get the drop on you and you’d never see them coming.”

Alex took the earbuds out and smiled up at him serenely. “Saw you coming before you even parked.” He nodded towards the front window of his house, which Michael could now see from his position beside Alex gave him a full view of the street behind them.

“And don’t worry; I’m armed,” he added, picking up his crutch and setting it back down again with a raise of his eyebrows.

Michael shook his head, promising himself he wouldn’t get distracted. “I brought your guitar back. I don’t know why you even left it with me.”

Alex shrugged. “Thought you might like to play again now that your hand is healed. You used to say that it helped you.”

“I don’t need help!” And there went Alex’s eyebrows again. Okay, so maybe his coping mechanisms weren’t anything to be proud of, but that didn’t mean he wanted Alex’s pity. 

“Besides, I figure you’ll want to have it now that you’re getting out of the military. Go back to doing music like you wanted, and all that.”

“Actually, I reenlisted.”

For a split second it felt like Alex had nailed him right in the solar plexus with his crutch for the way his breath got short. “What? Why? Why would you do that?”

Either Alex was oblivious to Michael’s reaction, or he chose to ignore it. “I’m not done yet. Caulfield was bigger than just my father. I have to get to the bottom of this, and I can’t do that as a civilian.”

And before he could protest, before he could tell him that it didn’t matter, that everyone was already dead anyway, that the last thing Michael wanted was Alex miserable for years to come out of some sense of obligation, Alex stood and made his way over to another chair where a slim folder sat.

He picked up the folder and held it out in front of him. “I’ve been going through the drives we managed to save, and I’ve found some more information about your mother. I thought you might like to have it.”

Michael’s head was spinning. He reached for the folder with a shaking hand, dreading what he might find out, but needing to know all the same.

But Alex didn’t let go of the folder right away. “She wasn’t caught until a whole year after the crash. I need to warn you... her intake photo is there and it’s not pretty. I can - I can take it out if you want. It might be too much right now.”

Michael was shaking his head before Alex had even finished warning him. “I need to know, Alex.” 

He should’ve listened; it was definitely too much. The woman in the photo was beaten and half-naked. Nothing like the happy image he’d seen of her when they’d briefly linked minds at Caulfield. But that had been a fantasy; this had been her reality. For decades. 

He slammed the folder shut again and thrust it into Alex’s chest. “I can’t do this. You were right; it’s too much.”

He drew in a deep breath, determined to accomplish what he came for. He was done ruining Alex’s life. He’d fucking reenlisted. He’d been looking into the Caulfield horrors to give Michael information on his mother. It had to stop.

“We can’t do this.”

Alex set the folder down and regarded him too calmly. “Can’t do what, exactly?”

“I don’t want any more favors from you. I don’t want you looking into this shit anymore. Just leave it alone.”

“Guerin, that’s not your choice to make. Besides, it isn’t just for you, it’s for me. My family was a part of this. I’m going to find out how deep this goes.” 

“Well I’m done, okay? I’m fucking done. Don’t reach out, don’t come around, don’t leave guitars in my trailer… just don’t.”

And finally, finally, the unbothered, patient exterior Alex had been displaying since he arrived started to crumble. Except the sight of his brown eyes filling with tears didn’t bring him any satisfaction; he only hated himself more. 

But if that’s what it took to get Alex out of his orbit…

“We’re done, Alex. Really done. You were right, we’ve never really been friends. Why start now?” And damn it, as hard as he was trying to keep it together, the way Alex’s face was wavering in front of him told him his own eyes were getting wet. He looked away, focusing on a space over Alex’s shoulder.

“Find someone else to save.” He turned, needing to get back to his truck before he lost it.

He wanted to run to his truck and peel out of Alex’s driveway, if only to get away from the hurt he knew he’d caused. Instead, he forced himself to walk over, get in, and drive away slowly, eyes only on the road in front of him.

If he’d looked back, he would’ve seen Alex standing frozen, staring at the spot he’d been a few minutes earlier. 

He only made it about half a mile before his breath was hitching and he couldn’t see the road anymore through the tears. He pulled over and stuffed a fist into his mouth, wondering if this was how Max had felt when his heart was shredded.

By the time he made it back to the airstream it was dark, and he wasn’t even sure where the day had gone. 

And after a few whiskeys, he didn’t care.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two things:
> 
> First, Michael is, and always will be, an unreliable narrator. Especially this early on when he's still too blinded by his own stuff to see what's really going on.
> 
> Second, while some canon things will happen the same way in general broad strokes, I won't be doing a word-for-word rehash of the stuff from the episodes. (Because I don't have copies of the episodes to watch again, and because some of it just wouldn't fit with this AU anyway.)

He woke to a loud clanging noise and groaned. It felt like something had crawled down his throat and died. Barely cracking his eyes open produced a familiar sight: the inside of a jail cell. He would’ve chuckled if he thought he could manage it without his head splitting open. 

Another clang had him reopening his eyes - when had he closed them? He slowly levered himself upright and saw the sheriff was just barely in view doing something… but Michael couldn’t fathom what the hell she’d need to do that would make so much  _ noise. _

She must’ve felt his eyes on her because suddenly she turned around and came near the cell with a too-bright smile.

“Well good morning, Michael. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

He resisted the urge to groan again, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. “Nah, I’ve been up a while.” The rasp in his voice ruined his sarcasm so he tried again after clearing his throat. “You building another cell over there?”

She ignored his question, but the pleasant smile stayed on her face. Probably just to irritate him. “No one pressed charges this time, but fighting is still disturbing the peace.”

Michael made a show of looking slowly to his left and his right. “Did I fight… myself?”

She snorted. “No, you got your ass kicked. The others left last night.” 

“Hmm…” He nodded, as if he knew what she was talking about. He’d been drinking, and he’d been angry, but that was just a typical Saturday night for him now. He couldn’t remember who he’d decided to piss off this time.

This was the first time in a while that he’d made enough of a scene to end up here, though. And now that Max was gone, he knew there was no chance he’d get off with a warning. 

“Your fine was $400. Go ahead and freshen up. Your ride will be here soon.”

“Wait, my what?” Michael’s head was too fuzzy to imagine who might be coming for him apart from Isobel. Which meant he was probably about to get an earful about what a jackass he’d been lately.  _ Newsflash, Iz, I already know. _

“Your ride, Guerin. Get ready.”

He eased off the bench and went over to the small sink to wash his face and rinse his mouth. If he was leaving it meant that Isobel had paid his fine. And if she’d paid his fine it meant that he was likely going to spend the next month being her personal errand boy until she felt sufficiently paid back.

_ It was going to suck. _

He could feel bruising along his hairline, his cheekbones, and his jaw. Fantastic. Apparently the sheriff hadn’t been lying about him getting his ass kicked. Though maybe if he played his cards right he could get Isobel to feel sorry enough for him that she’d give him a day before he had to start paying her back through manual labor.

He’d retaken his seat and had just begun to drift off sitting up when he heard the front door open. He couldn’t see the front area from where he was, so he listened for Isobel’s voice. How angry she sounded would help him settle on a game plan.

But it wasn’t Isobel, it was Kyle. Apparently he’d come to bid his mother good morning, like the perfect son he’d suddenly become. He’d probably brought her donuts… or a bagel. 

Nah, Kyle seemed like the bran muffin type, the healthy bastard.

Next thing he knew, one of the deputies was standing in front of his cell with the keys. “You’re being released, come on.”

“Uh… is my ride here? I didn’t hear her come in.”

The deputy - who’s name Michael had never bothered to learn - just rolled his eyes and handed him his personal effects then gestured for him to follow. 

Leading him right out to Kyle.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” Michael uttered to the deputy’s retreating back. 

“No mistake; I’m your ride.” Kyle pushed the door open, tilting his head at Michael.

He could think of very few reasons Kyle would come get him, and none of them were good. “What happened? What’s going on?” 

They’d found another Caulfield. Someone had taken Alex. Something had happened to Isobel…

“Let’s talk in the car. Come on, it’s just over here.”

It was overcast, but the sun still managed to find its way into his eyes to cause a spike of pain. Still, it barely registered over the cacophony of sheer worry spinning through his brain, making his stomach churn. The short trip across the very small police station parking lot took _forever_ and by the time they were safely inside Kyle’s car, Michael was about to lose it. 

“Okay, doors locked, windows up… tell me what the hell is going on. Is someone hurt?”

Kyle’s face was doing something that showed that he had no idea that Michael had spent the thirty second walk to the car imagining increasingly worse scenarios. “What? No! Of course not. Why would you-” 

A look of understanding overtook his features. “Don’t worry, I have an ulterior motive. I didn’t come get you out just to be a nice guy.”

Michael sighed, relaxing.  _ Now _ they were getting somewhere. “Okay, so what am I gonna owe you for this?”  _ Besides the obvious $400 _ … Michael was afraid he was going to rack up more debt than he’d be able to repay.

Kyle turned and reached into the backseat, pulling out a familiar folder. “Take the damn thing. You don’t have to look at it. Burn it if you want.”

“Why?” Michael had been sure that his last few weeks of drunken debauchery would’ve discouraged Alex from trying to help him anymore. And now he was sending Kyle to do it?

As if he could read his thoughts, Kyle said, “Alex didn’t send me. He doesn’t even know I’m here. But I’m sick of seeing him keep this folder on his workspace so he can look at it every time he feels the need to punish himself. I want it out of his sight. You take it and do whatever you want with it, and I’ll tell him you asked for it when he notices it missing. He’ll accept that.”

Nothing Kyle was saying made any sense. “You guys are working together?”

“Of course that’s what you’d fixate on.” Kyle sighed. “Back around the time Noah was on the loose, Jesse came into the bunker where Alex was keeping his Project Shepherd stuff and he shot me.”

Kyle held up a hand to stop Michael’s immediate questions. “I had a bullet proof vest on so it only bruised me. But I’d had a bad feeling for a while, so I’d come prepared. I shot him up with barbiturates. He’s been in a coma ever since.”

“Jesse’s in a coma?” 

“Yep. Has been for weeks. So yeah, Alex and I have had a few things to discuss.”

Michael shook his head. “How am I just finding out about this now?” How could he have missed something so big? He’d been so caught up with the Noah problem that he hadn’t even thought about what Jesse might be up to, or who he might go after.

Kyle sighed again as he started the car. “Well Guerin, you haven’t really been around, have you?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. It was true, he’d been a little wrapped up in his own problems. But Jesse going on a shooting spree and getting a drug-induced coma for his trouble still seemed like something you’d go out of your way to share, regardless. Though he supposed it wasn't something you shared with strangers... and that's what he and Alex were destined to become.

Michael leaned against the window and watched the streets go by as an empty feeling grew in his chest. Finally, as they pulled into the junkyard, Kyle spoke again.

“Look, Jesse essentially killed my dad at Caulfield - I saw the video. It was awful, but I’m just glad… I’m glad I finally got some closure. That I know what happened. Maybe what’s in this folder will help you.” His voice was surprisingly kind; Michael didn’t know what to do with that.

Michael woke hours later, headache mostly gone thanks to the acetone he’d guzzled before laying down. The stupid folder was still laying on the counter where he’d dropped it when he’d got home. 

Jesse was in the hospital - in a  _ coma _ \- and Alex hadn’t told him. Michael supposed he should be happy. He’d wanted a clear split from Alex, and it looked like that’s what he got. It didn't matter how it felt, it was the right thing to do.

He grabbed the folder and threw it open. He was tired of dreading the truth. Or maybe he was just ready for more pain. 

He traced a finger over his mother’s photo. In his vision she’d been wearing white, but here she was dressed like a 1940’s farm hand.

A farm hand…

Looking again at the file, he noticed the date. It’s what Alex had told him when he’d first shown him the file - his mother had been free just over a year before her capture. 

A year…

Michael’s head immediately started whirring to life with thoughts. They’d crashed in Roswell, and she’d been captured in Roswell… so the chances were pretty good that she’d spent her year of freedom right in Roswell.

Michael dropped the folder on his bunk and stood. It was time to hit the library.

Of course Roswell Public Library only had one microfiche reader, and it seemed like every damn time he came to use it, some guy with blue hair was looking up WWII shit. It looked more historical than fanatical, from what Michael could see, but still, it was annoying to have to share. He started showing up a little earlier to see if he could beat the guy there, and managed to do it several times. He would’ve probably been more smug about it, but scouring the archives for any mention of his mother had become a bit of an obsession and he really didn’t have room in his mind for much else once he got to looking through the archives.

He searched for any mention of a Nora Truman, but also any time there was any talk of aliens or a strange sight or encounter he’d stop to read it over as well. He doubted his mother would’ve been associated with anything alien - being in hiding and all - but he couldn’t resist digging through that info to see if any of it had any merit. Legitimate things often got buried in the nonsense - but they were there if you knew how to look for them.

It was a random Thursday a couple weeks later when he found it: a photo from a newspaper showing his mother at the local fair. There she was in farm clothes again, but he recognized her right away. She looked… happy. According to the date on the clipping, the photo had run in the paper just a day before his mother was captured and taken to Caulfield. 

According to the article, his mother had been at the fair with the people from the Long Farm. They’d been having record crops since the previous summer. He wondered if that was a coincidence, or if they somehow also had the power to grow vegetables. He snorted. That would’ve come in handy back in school when he was out in the desert living out of the back of his truck.

The very next article described a catastrophe that happened the following night. A bolt of lightning had struck the barn, starting a massive fire and killing the entire staff. That was the night she was caught. Whatever had happened, Michael seriously doubted a random act of weather had been involved.

Still, the fact that she’d been with the Longs… their farm went back generations. He wondered if some record from that time period still existed. 

He sent the page to the printer, and grabbed the microfiche plate to put it away. No sense in looking any further at the archives here. If there was any information left, it was at the Long Farm.

Michael knew exactly where Fosters Ranch had kept all their records. Trouble was, the Long Farm wasn’t Fosters Ranch, and he had no damn clue where to even start looking. The current records were probably all digital, but a lot of times the really old ones got left in crates and boxes - why bother to digitize something that was no longer relevant? Unless they were big into the history of the place, it was likely that the records he was looking for were somewhere dusty and rarely-used.

The place was big. He figured he’d wander around a bit, get the lay of the land. And if he happened to run into anyone, he’d just ask about their history. Maybe he could pretend to be a grad student doing a paper on it or something.

As long as he didn’t run into Wyatt, he’d be fine.

Of course Wyatt was the very first person he ran into. “Well look who it is. You’ve got 30 seconds to get your ass off my property before it’s riddled with arrows.”

Michael’s mouth replied automatically before his brain could think it through. “Wait, the  _ property _ will be riddled with arrows, or my  _ ass _ ? If it’s the latter… that’s kinda kinky, but to tell you the truth, I’m just not into it.”

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Wyatt made a show of aiming his crossbow at him, but Michael had his TK ready - there was no way he was letting him pull the trigger. Let him think the stupid thing had jammed.

Before the bastard could do more than growl and start to get a shot lined up, a voice came from nearby. “Damn it, Wyatt, quit threatening to shoot people!”

It was the blue haired guy from the library, striding towards them from out of the barn. 

Wyatt didn’t lower the crossbow. “He’s not people, he’s riff-raff!”

Library Guy rolled his eyes and pushed the crossbow down once he was close enough. “And you’re on parole. Or did you want your parole officer finding out that you were threatening violence against another person?”

Michael stared fascinated, as Wyatt started to protest only to be shut down by his blue-haired hero. “Why don’t you go exercise the horses like you promised your mom you would, and I’ll forget to mention this at dinner, hmm?”

Wyatt glared at him once more for good measure, then left in a huff. 

“I didn’t know Wyatt had a… brother?”

“Cousin, actually. So what are you doing here, Guy-From-The-Library?”

He chuckled. “Funny, I’ve been calling you something similar in my head this whole time. I’m Michael. And I’m here to follow up on a story I was researching.”

The guy shook Michael’s hand. “I’m Forrest. And based on what I’ve seen of your searches… let me guess: you’re here about the supposed alien conspiracy in the 40’s. I saw you were always going through the local stories on the microfiche - that’s what everyone thinks happened in that time period.”

“Oh? You think it’s wrong?”

“Let me show you something.” Forrest led him back towards the barn he’d come out of, and they entered it, heading all the way to the far end where a giant door stood open. He brought them to stand in front of an old, weathered beam that had lines on it with names.

“The women’s names were Nora and Louise.” He pointed to two scratch marks, each labeled with the names. “Then you have this one down here,” there was one that was much lower labeled ‘Walt’, “and this one,” another higher up labeled ‘Roy.’ 

“Roy Bronson was the foreman here in the 40’s, and Walt, as I understand it, was a kid Roy had taken in off the streets. Now, I know that the conspiracy people want to believe that Nora and Louise were aliens who’d crash landed here, but there’s a simpler and more historically-accurate explanation. Maybe not as fun - in a ‘Star Trek’ sorta way, but more reliable. And, unlike all those alien theories you probably read about, this explanation is backed by historical data, not mass hysteria.”

Michael stepped back. “Okay, so what’s this impressive theory that you’re so invested in?”

“World War II. It fits the time frame, it fits the evidence. I think the two women were war criminals. Most likely? German spies. And Roy had fallen for one of them - or who knows? Maybe both.” He gestured again at the post. “I mean, look at the height chart they made for themselves. That’s something families do together. Whatever else was going on, it’s clear they were pretty close.”

Michael examined the beam. He hadn’t realized that the marks were a height chart. He reached out a hand and traced the mark labeled ‘Nora.’ To think that he was touching something his mother had touched… it was amazing. And the ‘Walt’ mark was low.. Forrest had called him a kid. Judging by his height, he must’ve been pretty young. 

His heart started to pound. Was there a chance that this Walt guy was still alive? If he’d been just a kid in the 40’s… how old would that make him now? Late 60’s? Depending on how old he’d been then?

Forrest continued the tour, thankfully oblivious to Michael’s inner turmoil. “Let me show you this.” He led him deeper into the barn where there was a ladder positioned right under an opening leading to what looked like a loft. 

“First,” he reached under a nearby desk where Michael could see a mini fridge, “hold my beer.” He pulled out two beers, and handed them both to Michael before going to the base of the ladder. “I’ll be right back.”

He was back in a couple minutes with what looked like an old metal lunchbox. “Come on.”

They went to the other end of the barn and out the big door towards a log that sat under the shade of a tree. “Gets hot in the barn, so I come out here for breaks.”

They sat on the log and Michael handed Forrest his beer. They were twist-tops, thankfully. “So you didn’t grow up here, but now you work on your cousin’s farm?”

Forrest made a face. “It’s my  _ aunt and uncle’s _ farm, first of all. I spent the summers here, mostly with my cousin Kate. She and I decided we were going to be archaeologists and we spent most days looking for artifacts and avoiding Wyatt. And I don’t really work here, but I’m helping out for a bit while I finish my book. I’m a historian, if you couldn’t tell by the way I’m geeking out over the past.”

“Yeah, I wondered.”

He shrugged, then opened the metal lunchbox and presented it to him. “Bullets Kate and I found all over the property. Consistent with guns the military was using in the 40’s. See, the women were spies, like I said, and eventually the military found them and raided the property to get them. Roy was killed in the crossfire. The boy… no one really knows. A lot of people died that night. The news reported that a bolt of lightning struck the barn and set it on fire, but I believe that the women had been building some kind of weapon in the barn, and when the military came, they destroyed it.”

“Wait, what makes you think they had a weapon here?”

“Part of it is a gut feeling, part of it is the evidence. The barn was destroyed. That beam over there? It’s one of the only pieces that survived, and only because it practically petrified in the heat. And of course there’s this.” Forrest dug into the box and produced a charred piece of paper. He set the lunchbox down and held it out for Michael to see.

“We found this in the dirt one summer. You can’t really make it out, since it’s such a small piece of whatever it was, but it definitely looks like it could’ve been schematics for some type of weapon. And,” he pointed to faint squiggles on the edges, “this isn’t English, and it isn’t German. I’m guessing it’s code. Which makes sense because - spies,” Forrest ended with a grin.

The paper looked a lot like something Michael had been working on down in his bunker. “Mind if I take this with me? I’d like to make a copy of it.”

“Yeah, go for it. And good luck with your story, man. I mean, it may not be historically accurate, but I bet it’ll be a fun read.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael gets the ship piece back, gets a visit from Isobel, and learns something that shocks him to his core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** This part is very unhappy. Michael is in a bad place, and he continues to be an unreliable narrator. What he thinks about himself, others, and the world in general is not accurate. It'll get better, but this is his low point. This part contains unrecognized and unacknowledged depression and unhealthy coping mechanisms involving avoidance and alcohol.

The partial schematic from the Long Farm matched well enough with some of the work in Michael’s bunker that he was certain that he knew what his mother had been working on: she’d been building a vehicle to take them home again. 

Which was… awful, because of what’d happened. But also good to know in some ways. His mom had been in hiding, secretly building a way to get them home; she hadn’t forgotten about him, she hadn’t abandoned him. 

She’d wanted him safe.

He couldn’t dwell too much on that without feeling a devastating sense of futility. She’d left him in a pod to keep him safe, and  _ she’d  _ been captured and tortured. And in the end, it’d all been for nothing because he hadn’t been safe, had he? 

He wondered if she’d been able to feel him once he’d emerged from the pod. Had she felt his suffering on top of her own? Had she known that Earth hadn’t been a friendly place for her son?

He really hoped not. But he supposed he’d never know the answer now.

A couple of bottles later, he was working on forgetting the question. 

But he still hadn’t quite managed it yet when Alex pulled up to find him sitting by the fire outside the trailer. Michael hoped he wasn’t here for beer - he didn’t feel like sharing.

Alex approached, but didn’t sit down. “Hey, I know you asked me to stay away, but I need to talk to you about something. Mind if I sit for a minute?”

Michael waved his hand in lazy permission. “Knock yourself out, Alex.” 

Instead of sitting across from him, Alex settled into the chair beside him. “Drunk yet?”

“Nah, not yet. Though I do have some good news - my mother was building an escape vehicle for us when the military came to take her to Caulfield. So,” he shrugged, “at least she tried.”

“I’m so sorry, Guerin. What my family did was unforgivable.”

“True, but you don’t have to be sorry. It wasn’t you that did it.”

Even staring into the fire, Michael could see Alex shake his head. “I didn’t do it, but I’m part of that legacy. And honestly? I’m sick of it.”

Michael glanced at him to see Alex bent over, fiddling with a backpack he’d brought.

“My family stopped your family from leaving Earth. From getting somewhere safe. That’s my legacy, but I don’t want that.” 

Alex reached out and put an iridescent object into his hands - it was one of the ship pieces Michael had been looking for. “What the… where did you find this, Alex?”

“I’ve had it for months. Jim Valenti left it for me at his cabin. I uh… I didn’t know what it was until that day you showed me your work. But then I didn’t want to give it back because… I didn’t want you to leave.”

Alex closed the backpack and stood up, swiping at his eyes. “The Manes legacy stops here. I can’t do to you what my family did to your mother.” 

Michael’s thoughts were racing and his heart was in his throat as he watched Alex leave. It felt like his mind was full of static and the only thing it was capable of producing was confusion. Not confusion about why Alex had held onto the ship piece for a while, but confusion over what him giving it back really meant. And why was he afraid he’d do what his family had done? It didn’t make sense - Alex wasn’t going to try to lock him away, why would he even make the comparison?

Did Alex  _ want  _ him to leave? Was that what this all meant? He’d kept the stupid ship piece back when he hoped Michael would stay, but now that they were well and truly broken up he was giving him his blessing to what? Leave the planet?

Tears sprang to Michael’s eyes. He’d wanted to push Alex away, and it looked like he’d succeeded better than he ever thought possible. 

So why did it hurt so much? 

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, concentrating. He’d never figured out how it worked and as far as he could remember, he’d never been able to do it… but he still tried. He reached out in his mind, picturing Isobel, trying to connect.  _ You still need me here, right Iz? You might be the only one left on the planet, but you’re not sick of me… are you? _

His words didn’t connect, bouncing around through an empty void before falling flat. 

_ Guess I’m alone then. _

  
  
  


His plan to sleep off his latest bender was interrupted by Isobel banging something together in front of his sink. He rolled onto his stomach, pulling the pillow over his head.

“Finally, a reaction! I’ve called your name like six times, Michael! Wake up already!”

He cursed into his thin mattress, then tipped his head to the side so she’d be able to hear him. “Go away, Iz. It’s too early for this.”

“Sorry, no can do. Max is dead, and we need to make some plans.” She pulled the pillow from his grasp and smacked his back with it. “Now, Michael!”

He rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes to block out the light. “He’s been dead a while now, Iz. What’re you talking about?”

“He’s  _ officially _ dead now. There’s a police report.”

That woke him up fast. He sat up, reaching blindly under his bed for the small box where he kept his acetone.

Only to find it empty. Fuck, he’d been using it a lot with all these hangovers he’d been having.

“Here.” Isobel thrust a bottle into his hands and he drank gratefully.

The piercing pain in his head faded into a dull ache. “What police report? What’s going on? Did somebody find the pod?”

“No, of course not! Alex hacked into the police database in Austin and created a police report about Max’s death.”

“What the? That doesn’t make any sense. What about the body? The autopsy?”

“He took care of all of it. He faked a coroner’s report. They examined the body and sent it to be cremated, according to their records. By tonight, the Austin PD will be contacting the local Sheriff’s Department to ask them to do the notifications.”

“Why would Alex do that? We didn’t ask him-”

“ _ I _ asked him, Michael.  _ I _ asked for his help.”

“Why, Iz?! Why’d you have to get him involved? Why’d you have to do any of this?”

“Because people would’ve started asking questions, Michael! Max grew up here. People might believe that he ran off and took an impromptu vacation when the love of his life broke his heart, but they weren’t going to believe that he stayed away forever. They wouldn’t believe that he’d never come back to see his parents or his twin! We had to do something to make it real so that we could move on!”

Michael slumped in acceptance. She was right. Yet another thing he hadn’t really bothered to think about. Fuck, he felt like he was caught in a gravity well. His mother’s death, everything that’d happened with Noah, and everything between him and Alex… it had such a huge mass that he was just… sucked in. He didn’t have the energy to achieve escape velocity when the stuff pulling him in was just so…  _ big _ .

“Sorry, Iz I- I don’t know what’s happening with me. I just… I just can’t get past-” he groaned and bowed his head, hands gripping his hair as the words failed him. He didn’t even know how to explain what was happening to him to the one person - the last person on Earth who gave a shit about him.

The bed dipped as she sat beside him, draping an arm across his shoulders and hugging him to her side. “It’s okay, we’ll figure it out. We will.”

He doubted that. Everything was too big, too impossible, too painful. 

That’s not to say he didn’t recognize what a selfish asshole he was. Isobel had been through hell. She’d been exploited for years by the guy who was supposed to love her. The happy life she’d built had turned out to be a big fat lie. 

And here he was wallowing over stuff he’d lost years ago, and stuff he’d never had in the first place. Fucking pathetic.

“M’ sorry your husband turned out to be a psychopath,” he muttered, no idea what else to say.

Isobel’s burst of laughter startled him, and he looked over at her wondering what was going on. 

“Michael, please don’t ever try to go into the greeting card business,” she said between chuckles. “You’re amazingly bad at this.”

He allowed himself a smirk, relieved that she seemed okay. 

  
  
  
The story was this: After Liz had broken his heart, Max had headed to Texas to sight-see and cry his eyes out, or whatever. One night sometime after arriving in Austin, he’d been out for a walk and he’d seen a mugging taking place. He rushed to stop it, because he was a dumbass that couldn’t curb his always-needs-to-be-a-hero tendencies, and he’d been gunned down. They hadn’t found an ID on him, presumably it’d been taken by the mugger, and he’d been processed as a John Doe and sent to the morgue until they’d managed to ID him through fingerprints. Then the paperwork had gotten lost in the shuffle, but now that they’d realized their error, the appropriate authorities would be notified.

“So we need to be ready. Like I said, Alex thinks the Austin PD will be passing the notification to the Sheriff today, and they’ll want to do in-person notifications to next-of-kin. I’m guessing they’ll go to my parent’s house first, but they may also come to me since they know Max was my twin. Even if they don’t, I know Mom will rush over as soon as she hears.”

“Then I guess you gotta be ready to cry.”

“Honestly, it won’t be that hard.” Isobel’s voice broke, and Michael moved to rub her back. “I miss him all the time, you know?”

“Sorry I haven’t been there, Iz.”

She sniffed and then seemed to pull herself together with a shake of her head. “I’ll save my tears for later, right now I need to know that I can count on you.”

“Yeah, whatever you need.”

  
  
  
What she needed turned out to be a long list. She wanted him beside her at the funeral, though she agreed to be the one to explain that to her parents. She also wanted him to ask Sanders for a week off afterwards because she’d decided that the two of them should be the ones to pack up Max’s stuff and get his house ready for sale. Or repossession. Or whatever the hell was happening to it once they were done. 

And finally, she wanted him sober. Or at least not engaging in public drunkenness or bar fights at the Pony - or any other bar in town, she’d been quick to add.

Which was fine. Nothing on her list was going to be fun, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. And honestly, the getting-drunk-all-the-time thing was getting old. And expensive. 

So it was with the best of intentions that he got up and went to work that day. And he worked all day, the desire to be a better brother carrying him through all the way until quitting time. And when he trudged back up the steps to his trailer that evening, he was proud of the fact that he had no desire to go to the Pony and pick a fight. 

Truthfully, he was just too tired for that. But he decided he’d take it as a win. Maybe if he just worked his ass off every single day he’d always be too tired to feel angry. Or at least too tired to do anything about whatever anger he  _ did _ feel.

Of course his day of kept promises and hard work made him forget one very important thing: the road to hell was paved with good intentions. And he may have forgotten it for a minute, but he was definitely on the road to hell.

He was just about to strip out of his dusty, grease-stained shirt and hit the shower when a knock came at his trailer door. Sanders, maybe? He’d heard a car, but he’d figured Sanders was moving one of the last vehicles he’d fixed today, though he hadn’t really been paying attention.

When he opened the door to see Sheriff Valenti standing at the bottom of the steps, his stomach dropped to his knees. For a second his mind raced, trying to remember if he’d done anything that’d get him locked up again, but he was drawing a blank. 

His confusion must’ve shown on his face, because she sighed softly and said, “You’re not in trouble, Michael. Mind if I come in?”

That’s when he remembered. Today was the day they were notifying next-of-kin about Max’s “death.”

Except Michael wasn’t his next-of-kin. Not that anyone knew.

He stepped back and let her come up the steps. She gestured to a pair of seats near the door with eyebrows raised in expectation, and he just shrugged and sat down. He had no idea what her angle was, but he could not convince his shaking hands that he wasn’t in some sort of trouble.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” she started. And has she continued, gently and somberly telling him what had happened in Austin, Michael found himself more confused than ever. Which, a part of him distantly recognized, was probably a good thing. He probably looked exactly as shocked and disbelieving as he should while receiving news of someone’s passing.

When she was finally finished, it took him a second to get his voice working. “Why- I’m not… is someone telling Isobel?”

She nodded, looking at him like she knew something he didn’t. “I’ve just come from the Evans and Isobel. You were third on my list.”

He shook his head, voice failing him again. She must’ve taken that as an invitation to explain because she started speaking again with an almost hushed reverence.

“I  _ know _ , Michael. I was a young deputy when you kids were found. I know that the three of you were together. And I want you to know that I looked everywhere for the people that abandoned you. You kids didn’t deserve that. And I… I went to check on you three at the orphanage. It was the same day the Evans came. I saw what you did for Max. I’ve always admired you for that.”

It was almost surreal, sitting in his dump of a trailer listening to the person who’d seen him cooling his heels in a jail cell off and on for the past 10 years saying that she admired him. It didn’t compute. “I don’t… I don’t get it. What did I do for Max?”

“Oh, I guess maybe you don’t remember. You were all so young, and you’d been traumatized so badly… Max wouldn’t stop screaming. He was writing all over the walls and no one could get him to calm down. But just before the Evans came in, you took the crayon from Max. I’ll never understand how you calmed him - he’d been so volatile, so disturbed - but you just took the crayon from him and nudged him over to Isobel. He  _ listened _ to you, I guess, even though you didn’t say anything.”

The room was spinning, and Michael was sure it was a side effect of being suddenly thrown into another universe. A universe where  _ he _ was the level-headed one, and Max was the one who had anger issues. “They-they-they- they told me… they told me I’d been drawing on the walls and screaming.”

“No, Michael, I was there. It was Max, not you. You saved him.” 

Michael shook his head in denial. “No. No, I didn’t.” His breath hitched and he shuddered, hunching forward to rest his head in his hands.

The Sheriff laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You  _ did _ save him. In more ways than you realize, I think.”

Head still bowed, he ran his hands through his curls, tugging on them in frustration. “No. I didn’t save him. He’s dead. Because-because he always had to be the he-hero.” And fuck, why couldn’t he breathe well enough to get the words out?

On the ledge beside them, his phone started ringing, Isobel’s name splashed boldly across the top of the screen.

“You should probably take that,” the sheriff said as she stood, already heading towards the door. “I really am sorry, Michael. I know Max was important to you.”

Then she was gone, and he was staring at the door while his phone continued to ring, begging for his attention. 

He didn’t manage to get to it until the second round of ringing started, the first call having eventually gone to voicemail.

“Hey, Iz, can’t really talk right now.” He hoped she understood that he meant that literally - he could barely get the words out around all the stupid emotion clogging his throat. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Maybe she murmured an agreement because she understood, maybe he’d only imagined she did. Either way, the result was the same. 

He looked around his empty living space. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been doing before Valenti had arrived to drop kick him into this distorted new reality.  It felt like the once-solid ground had shifted underneath his feet. The worst part was that his most immediate desire upon finding that so much of what he’d understood to be true had been a lie, was to call Alex and tell him about it.

Which he knew was stupid. He’d never told Alex about their time in the orphanage, so it wasn’t like he suddenly needed to correct the story.

And it was also selfish - because when  _ wasn’t _ he selfish? - he’d pushed Alex out of his life for a reason. Alex didn’t deserve to be drawn into this fucking black hole alongside him. There was a lot Michael wasn’t sure of these days, but the one certainty he still had, the reason he and Alex would never work - was that he wasn’t climbing out of a pit; he was circling the drain.

He wanted to get drunk. No, he  _ needed _ to get drunk. The alternative - continuing in this pain until he was crushed under the weight of it - wasn’t an option. He just wasn’t strong enough. 

He wasn’t going to head out to a bar, though. He’d made a promise.

Luckily, he still had plenty of liquor right here in the airstream.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael experiences the fallout from the previous night, and decides that things need to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **First of all some warnings:** this chapter contains vomiting, negative thoughts, and discussion of self-harm. Please feel free to leave me a message if you'd like something clarified or explained before reading.
> 
> Other notes: I'm not a doctor, so some specifics are fictionalized for the story's sake. However, the danger of getting passed-out drunk is very real. Also Kyle is a real MVP - and probably the single most unrealistic thing in this story will be his lighter work schedule as a surgeon. Sorry, the story needs him.

The first thing he noticed when he woke up, beyond the thundering pain in his head, was that his shoulder and hip hurt, but as he cracked his eyes open and his brain began to sluggishly process his surroundings, he realized that he must be sore because he’d somehow ended up sleeping on his side on the floor of his trailer.

But when he tried to roll over, he found himself thwarted by a hard-to-reach pillow that was wedged near his lower back. He closed his eyes and groaned, sending the arm he wasn’t lying on down to grope for the offending object. 

His eyes flew open again when a hand closed around his wrist. “Just lie still.”

It was Kyle-fucking-Valenti’s voice. He wanted to ask what was going on, demand to know exactly how and why Valenti had come into his home, but all that came out of his mouth was a questioning grunt.

“Yeah, I bet you’re feeling pretty shitty right now. And before you ask, the IV is just something to keep you hydrated.”

IV? Michael angled his eyes down towards his free hand and noticed the tube taped to the back of it. When the fuck had _that_ happened? He opened his mouth to ask, but suddenly something hot rushed up his throat and he convulsed, spewing it in front of him.

Even in the tight space, Kyle somehow managed to maneuver himself so as to avoid getting splashed, while keeping a supporting hand on his shoulder. “Yep, you don’t want that stuff in your stomach anyway.” 

Michael felt Kyle adjusting something around his nose and only then realized that there was a nasal cannula running under it. He wondered why he needed oxygen, and why Kyle had even bothered with him. How he’d known to come, and why he’d chosen to help. But as he coughed and gasped he realized that he was too worn out to ask about any of it.

It was humiliating, but he supposed it was par for the course. Once it seemed like his stomach was done revolting for the moment, Kyle threw a towel over the mess, hiding it from sight. 

And then he just sat there with him. Silently. 

It was too much. His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes to block the hot tears from leaking out. “Isobel?”

“I sent her home. She was pretty wrung out.”

“Why’re _you_ here?” 

Kyle was silent for long enough that Michael opened his eyes again, wondering if the other man had somehow wandered off without him noticing. 

Nope, he was still there, though Michael couldn’t see what his face was doing without craning his neck in a way that would’ve been painful.

Finally, he spoke. “Isobel called me when she couldn’t wake you up last night. She came over to check on you, and found you passed out drunk.”

Shame burned Michael’s face and caused his stomach to cramp. He didn’t know what to say. It was another failure. Another humiliation. Another time he’d fallen short of what he wanted despite his best intentions. Not for the first time, he wondered why that stupid pod had ever opened up and spit him out into this world. He was a disease, hurting everyone around him.

His breath stuttered again, and a tear ran over the bridge of his nose, falling to the floor beside his head.

Kyle sighed. “Guerin… Michael… I need to know if you did this on purpose to hurt yourself.”

He immediately shook his head in denial. He’d never do that to Isobel. He knew he wasn’t any good to her, but he also knew she’d hate for him to leave her. “No, I- I just… I didn’t…” 

He bit down a sob, pulling his knees to his chest and angling his face towards the floor. 

“Okay.” Kyle leaned over and rubbed his back between his shoulder blades as he trembled. He should’ve been angry because it was Kyle, but he just didn’t have the energy. He closed his eyes to focus on getting his breathing under control, and eventually drifted off.

When he woke next, his head still hurt, but he was a lot less queasy and his brain was a little quicker to get up to speed. He was still curled on his side on his trailer floor, but the IV was gone, a small bandage the only evidence that it’d ever been there.

He slowly pushed himself up until he was sitting, immediately spotting Isobel nearby watching him. He opened his mouth to apologize, but was distracted by the plastic under his nose. Using one hand, he pulled it out of his nose and worked it free from behind his ears while his other hand stayed planted on the floor, holding him steady. 

Before he could toss it aside, Kyle swooped in out of nowhere and collected it from him. “I’ll take that.”

“He doesn’t need it anymore?” Isobel asked, her voice quiet and uncertain.

“Not now that he’s up. It was just precautionary anyway.” Kyle answered.

Seeing them together reminded him what Kyle had done for Isobel when she’d been sick. How he’d helped her, not asking for anything in return. Damn that guy; he didn’t want to owe him anything, and he sure has hell didn’t want to like him.

He pushed off the floor and stood slowly, waving off Kyle’s help. “Need to-” he gestured back towards his tiny bathroom, not wanting to say anything that would make him any more of an asshole in front of Isobel.

He shuffled towards the closet-sized room, wondering if the two of them were going to sit ten feet away listening. By the time he got to the door though, he could hear Isobel telling Kyle something about getting some air, and he heard the trailer door open and shut again.

He emptied his bladder, rinsed out his mouth, and washed his face, then opened the door and rummaged through a nearby cupboard for a clean shirt to change into.

Once he was done, he came back towards the front of the airstream to find Kyle seated near the door, engrossed in something on his phone. The towel with the mess under it still sat in the middle of his floor. And Kyle must’ve looked up right as he was noticing it because he commented, “Yeah, you’ll have to get that one yourself.” 

Which was probably fair. Judging by the way his shirt had smelled, it hadn’t been the first time he’d been sick. 

He dropped onto his bunk, leaning against the wall. “What do you want, Valenti?”

Suddenly he was pinned by a more serious gaze than he’d been ready for. “I want to ask you again, now that you're more coherent: did you mean to hurt yourself last night?”

He rolled his eyes, trying to get back some sense of control. “No.”

Kyle kept staring at him. “Alcohol is a depressant. Drink enough of it, and it starts to shut the body down. You pass out. People think you’re just sleeping it off. But then you stop breathing because the alcohol you already drank is still being absorbed into your blood.”

He didn’t pause long enough to let Michael respond. “Isobel said you were upset about something. So she figured she’d give you a little time to process, and then she came over to see how you were doing. She found you on the floor. She called me because I’m a doctor and helping people is what I do.”

“Well congrats, Doc. Guess you’re a _good guy_ .” He knew he was being an asshole, but he was just barely keeping up the facade. The last thing he wanted was to break down in front of Kyle and start crying about how pathetic his life was. He figured - he _hoped_ \- if he pushed enough Kyle would get pissed and finally just walk out the door. Isobel would probably come in and yell at him, but anger was a lot easier to handle than tears.

Kyle didn’t seem to be getting the message, though. “Is this the life you want for yourself, Michael?”

He scoffed. “Oh yeah. One hundred percent.”

“The way you’re headed, you’re going to kill yourself. You know that, right? That’s where this leads.”

‘Like anyone would care’ almost came out of his mouth, but he knew that wasn’t true. Isobel would care, at least. “Thanks for your concern, Kyle. You’ve done your good deed for the day; I’m sure your scout leader will give you a badge for this.”

Unfortunately, Kyle showed no signs of getting angry, which was starting to make _Michael_ angry.

“Is this what Max would’ve wanted? What your mother would’ve wanted?” 

And that was a direct hit. He just stopped himself from gasping at the pain of it. “Fuck you, Kyle. You don’t know the first goddamn thing about Max or my mother.”

“I know that they loved you. I know that they’d hate what you’re doing to yourself.”

Michael exploded. “You think _I_ like it!? You think I enjoy being crushed… being fucking _mauled_ by all this shit all the time?! I wanted to go to fucking college, Kyle! I wanted to make them proud, I wanted to have a family and someone to-” he choked.

“I never got a vote in anything, so why should they get a vote after they’re dead? After they fucking _left_ me?” Fuck, his chest hurt. He drew his knees up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around them, bowing his head. He couldn’t believe he was having an emotional-fucking-breakdown in front of Valenti.

He was gasping and sobbing when he felt Isobel’s arms come around him. “It’s okay, Michael. It’ll be okay.”

He choked, trying to get enough air to tell her, to apologize. To let her know that his fuck-ups weren’t her fault. “I’m sorry Iz. I can’t- I can’t do it. I don’t know h-how.” 

“Can’t do what, Michael?”

“I can’t change. I’ve tried, Iz. It’s just- it’s just _crushing_ me. Everything’s so heavy… I can’t-I can’t lift it off me.”

He felt Isobel’s chest heave and her voice broke. “Then let someone help you. Please. Just… let someone help. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

He decided to accept the help. After all, he’d tried everything else and it’d gotten him exactly nothing except the big mess he currently found himself in. So he’d try it Isobel and Kyle’s way, because apparently they’d joined forces to try to save him or something. Though at this point, even _he_ had to admit that he needed saving. And if there was some way he could still come out of this and be useful… a good brother, a friend… anything but the constant pain-in-the-ass he’d become, it was worth a shot.

_He_ might not deserve it, not anymore. But Iz did. She deserved better from him.

So he swallowed down his knee-jerk, smart-assed remarks and listened while Kyle described what would happen. 

Withdrawal. How severe would depend on how badly he’d managed to mess up his body with all his drinking lately. But Kyle assured him that it wouldn’t be fun. Shakiness, night sweats, headaches and stomach pains are just _some_ of the things he could look forward to. Kyle thought the worst of it wouldn’t last more than a week or so, and he and Isobel decided Michael should probably have somebody with him during that time.

Naturally, Isobel offered her place, but Kyle pointed out that if it got bad she’d have to call him anyway, and besides, her mother would likely be haunting her place, wanting to talk about Max and process her grief now that he’d been declared dead.

Michael didn’t want to stay with Kyle, but he wanted to be around a grieving Mrs. Evans even less. Especially since there wasn’t an easy way to explain to her why Isobel was letting the local drunk detox in her guest room. 

Isobel packed up his stuff while he cleaned up the mess on his floor, and the next thing he knew he was in Kyle’s fucking Subaru, headed to his apartment. Thankfully, it was a two-bedroom. 

Unfortunately, the twin bed in the spare bedroom was pushed all the way into the corner and the rest of the space was taken up by a treadmill that sat in the middle of the room, facing a blank wall.

“Sorry, I never bothered decorating the room. I’ll get the treadmill out and put it in the living room, though. The dresser is in the closet, so we can just pull it out again and you should be good to go.”

Michael answered with a shrug because it felt like he’d just… run out of words. Kyle shooed him back out to the living room, instructing him to relax on the couch while he got things set up, so Michael went. 

His head was still pounding, and despite apparently being passed out drunk most of the night, he was exhausted. He dug through the bag Isobel had packed and found a couple bottles of acetone - bless her. He uncapped the first and drank half of it before dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

What was he even doing? He’d agreed to stay with _Valenti_ , of all people. It almost felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Though he had to acknowledge that there wasn’t a very long list of people eager to take him in. He supposed he _should_ feel grateful that the doc had some kind of hero complex of his own, but he wasn’t quite there yet. 

He told himself he should probably at least try to _act_ a little grateful even if he didn’t feel it, so he wouldn’t get his ass kicked to the curb and end up putting Isobel in a really uncomfortable position.

Kyle came around the front of the couch suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts. “We should probably talk about that, too,” he said, gesturing to the bottle Michael still had clutched in his hand.

Michael frowned. “It’s medicine. It’s like you taking aspirin or whatever.”

“Maybe. But a lot of medicines are also addictive. How much of that stuff have you been drinking?”

Lots. Lots more than strictly necessary. He added it to his alcohol, he drank it to help with hangovers, he used it whenever he overdid it with his powers… “I dunno, Kyle. I haven’t really been keeping track.”

“Then just to be safe, it’s probably time to start keeping track of your intake. If it’s medicine, use it like medicine. I understand that it’s a pain-reliever, and this week you’re going to be in some pain, but try to use it only when you need it, only as much as you need, and only for _physical_ pain.”

Ah, so drinking-to-forget was off the table. Great. “How the hell do you know so much about this? Did they make you do a whole addiction thing in med school?”

“Yeah, it’s something I studied. But my dad was an alcoholic; I didn’t learn everything from a book.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open as Kyle turned and headed towards the kitchen. “We both need to eat something. Hope you like eggs.”

Jim Valenti had been an alcoholic? How had he not known that? Of course, he hadn’t really spent any time around the police station until the very end of high school, and he couldn’t remember ever really interacting with the Sheriff back then. Suddenly some of Kyle’s actions started taking on new meaning. Was this personal for him? Was he trying to help Michael to somehow make up for not being able to help his father?

The thought sat uneasy in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was glad that Kyle finally seemed to have some sort of personal motive for helping him, or upset that he was potentially some kind of fix for Kyle’s misplaced guilt or whatever.

He sighed, recapping the acetone bottle and stuffing it back into his bag. His headache had faded to the background, but he still felt like shit - definitely not the time to be trying to analyze Kyle or his motivations.

After breakfast, Michael just wanted to sleep for a year. “So are you gonna take a week’s vacation just to watch me, or am I coming with you to work? Does the hospital have a daycare?”

Kyle snorted. “Yeah, but you’re a little tall for the daycare. I’m off today, but the rest of the week is pretty light. I’ll make sure someone’s here when I’m not, in case you need anything.”

Michael was pretty sure ‘in case you need anything’ meant ‘to keep you out of trouble’, but that was probably fair considering he was currently sitting in the kitchen of someone who’d spent most the night watching over his drunk ass. No need to admit that to Kyle, though.

“Sure, whatever. I’m gonna go sleep a bit.” 

Kyle had already dragged the dresser out of the closet, so he tossed his bag on top, too tired to unpack. Besides, he wasn’t sure he’d even _have_ to unpack… a week was hardly the longest he’d lived out of a bag.

The twin bed was still shoved in the corner, but it had clean bedding and - unsurprisingly - was way more comfortable than his bunk at the airstream. Michael fell asleep almost immediately, not even bothering to get under the covers.

The house was quiet when he woke, but his phone told him that it’d only been a couple hours. He wandered out towards the living room, noticing on the way by that Kyle had left his bedroom door open. Michael supposed it wasn’t surprising that he was still asleep - he’d probably worked a full day then been up most of the night. Between the two of them, Michael figured he’d definitely gotten more sleep.

So it was probably a good time to explore a bit.

He wanted to take a better look around the living room since he hadn’t been paying much attention earlier. Though there really wasn’t much to look at: a couch, now with a treadmill wedged behind it, a fairly big TV, and a low coffee table. There were a few shelves under the TV that contained a couple family photos and a knick knack or two that were probably from Kyle’s college days… nothing interesting.

But coming around the couch, Michael noticed that the coffee table had a single piece of paper on it, folded in half. On the front, “Guerin” was written in big blocky letters.

Oh god, was he really going to be leaving little notes around for him to find?

Michael dropped onto the couch and opened the paper, immediately understanding. It was a list titled “House Rules.” Finally, something familiar. There’d been foster homes that had given him lists of rules. It was always nice to know where the boundaries were, that way if he crossed them at least it’d be on purpose and not because he’d stumbled upon them by accident.

On second thought, it wasn’t much of a list, it was just 3 bullet points. The first said that he should make himself at home and feel free to use the treadmill, TV or “whatever.” The wi-fi password was scrawled right underneath - a series of numbers and letters that was clearly the manufacturer’s default password.

The second just said “if you need something, come get me” with the second half of the sentence underlined three times. “Dramatic,” Michael muttered.

And the third said that he should feel free to use whatever he found in the kitchen - as long as he didn’t finish all the protein bars because apparently Kyle was saving them to eat at work.

Which didn’t sound very healthy, but Michael wasn’t exactly in a position to judge. In any case, he wasn’t hungry yet, so he grabbed the remote and flicked the TV on. He turned the sound all the way off and turned on the subtitles, just in case Kyle was a light sleeper.

A normal person might’ve felt relief. A normal person might’ve thought that this was a pretty decent place and Kyle was a pretty decent person. 

Michael couldn’t remember when he’d ever been normal, though. And right now, his brain was insisting that it wouldn’t last. Nothing was decent for long. At least not for him. Just like every foster home, just like every job, just like every situation - it’d go bad. 

But at least Michael was honest enough to admit that it’d probably be his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear Alex will be in this story eventually. Michael's just not ready yet. (But Kyle is seriously the best guy ever, isn't he?)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Withdrawals and a funeral - Michael's not having the best time.

“Damn it,” Michael muttered, turning over again. The stupid twin bed that had felt incredibly comfortable this morning, now felt annoyingly soft and suffocating. He’d already tossed his shirt aside and had stripped down to a pair of ratty shorts, but he was still hot lying on top of the sheets in the dark.

He checked his phone again. It was midnight. Kyle had gone to bed hours ago, but he’d told Michael -  _ again _ \- that he was available if he needed anything. And he’d reminded him that he probably wouldn’t feel great and might not sleep well.

_ No shit, Kyle. _

Probably worse than the physical discomfort, though, was the way his mind was skipping around from thought to thought, both unwilling to focus on the decision at hand, and unable to quiet.

Isobel had come over for dinner and Michael had known right away that she’d had an agenda. It was another thing that her and Kyle had apparently worked out for him whenever it was that they talked when he wasn’t around.

They’d come up with a way to “fix” his hand so he wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. If he agreed, they’d create a story that he’d gone to a specialist in Santa Fe to have his hand surgically repaired, and Kyle would put a cast on it for him to wear around town. Then, weeks from now when he took the cast off, no one would wonder why it looked better. Apparently, those kinds of surgeries were so good now that it wouldn’t be expected to leave huge visible scars, so he’d be completely off the hook.

Isobel said she could go to Sanders and put it in his head that Michael had asked for time off for the surgery so they could pretend he was out of town right now. Then he’d be “back” in time for the funeral and everyone would see him with a cast. He just needed to give them the go ahead and they’d take care of everything.

He told them he’d think about it.

Or at least he’d try, if his brain would cooperate. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about any of it. He knew he was still pissed at Max for healing him, consequences be damned. And even worse, that Max had died so he couldn’t even  _ yell _ at him for it. 

But he also knew that… he hadn’t  _ liked _ having his hand messed up, but it’d been a part of him. It’d been proof of what had happened that day in the shed. It’d been something he and Alex had experienced together. Something that had left permanent scars on both of them - though maybe Alex’s weren’t as visible. But to have his taken away as if it’d never happened… it just felt wrong.

It felt like he’d be moving on, leaving Alex in that shed alone.

He swiped a hand over his wet cheeks, wishing, not for the first time, that he could call Alex. Not just because he missed him and longed to hear his voice - even though he definitely did - but also because he wished he could talk to him about this. What would Alex think about him being able to walk around visibly healed as if the shed had never happened? Would Alex feel like he was erasing part of their history? Would it upset him that Michael had a way to get rid of his scars, or in this case the bandana, while Alex had no way to erase the invisible ones he carried?

Then again, what if the opposite was true? What if Alex had felt bad every time he’d seen Michael’s fucked up hand? What if it’d brought back bad memories or some misplaced sense of guilt knowing his father was the one responsible? Maybe finally being able to walk around scar-free would release Alex from feeling that way.

Maybe for that reason alone, he should agree to their plan. He didn’t want to be a walking reminder, anchoring Alex to a painful past.

He grabbed his phone again and pulled up Alex’s contact screen. He needed to know which way Alex saw it. He sniffled, thumb hovering over the call button. 

Then he tossed his phone aside, letting it thunk to the carpeted floor. He didn’t have the right. No matter what happened with his hand, Alex was better off without him.

He curled onto his side, clutching his knees, determined to get through this without doing any more damage to Alex. 

Images of that day in the shed haunted him all night.

  
  
  


He woke to the smell of bacon. The sheets were twisted and damp from his sweating, leaving him feeling shaky and chilled. He grabbed his phone on the way to his bag, surprised to see that it was close to noon. Throwing on a hoodie and his only pair of sweatpants, he followed the smell of food all the way to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Sleepyhead!” 

“Hey, Iz.” He dropped into one of the chairs at the small breakfast bar. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of the hoodie, he wished he’d grabbed some socks now that his bare feet rested on the cold tile floor.

“Are you cold?” He frowned at nothing in particular as she laid the back of her hand against his forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”

He shrugged her hand off. “I made a decision. You guys can go ahead with your plan.”

Her face lit up immediately. “Michael, that’s great! Here, eat up, I’m gonna leave a message for Kyle.” 

She set a plate of food down in front of him and grabbed her phone, already tapping out a message.

Michael started down at the food, stomach souring just looking at it. He wasn’t sure if it was his decision making his stomach hurt, or if it was another fun effect of his withdrawals. Either way, he didn’t think he could eat.

Isobel finished with her phone and turned her attention towards him again. “Not feeling up to eating right now? Kyle said you might be queasy.”

He sighed. She’d made all this food for him… he was tempted to try to stuff it down his throat just so she wouldn’t feel bad. But he was 90% sure they’d end up with a mess to clean up. “Sorry.”

If Isobel was disappointed, she hid it well. “It’s fine, it’ll keep. How about a protein shake? I brought some with me - they’re the good kind.”

She opened the fridge and shook a small plastic bottle before handing it to him. “It’s chocolate.”

  
  
  


They spent most of the day watching TV on Kyle’s couch while Michael dozed off and on, huddled under a throw blanket and his hoodie. 

A door slammed and Michael jolted awake, bolting upright on the couch with a gasp. 

“Whoa, sorry. I didn’t mean to close it that hard.” He must’ve kicked it shut behind him, because he had a box in his hands. 

“It’s fine,” he told Kyle, then tried to convince his pounding heart of the same thing. Fuck, his hands would not stop shaking. 

“His stomach hasn’t been great. And he’s been shivering all day,” Isobel called from the kitchen.

Michael rolled his eyes. “ _ He’s _ right here. And he can speak for himself.”

“Okay, so how’ve you been today?” Kyle asked.

He shrugged. “Upset stomach, cold and shaky, night sweats last night.”

Kyle nodded. “All normal.”

“Yeah I read the pamphlet you gave me. I know.”

It was late enough that everyone had already eaten - or drank another protein shake in his case - so Kyle got right to unpacking the box he’d brought in. He took the items out one-by-one, showing them to Michael and explaining how he’d make the cast. “I figured if we could do it tonight - get it out of the way. That way, when the funeral happens it’ll actually look several days old like it should.”

Casting his hand didn’t hurt at all, but Kyle had explained to him that it’d get itchy soon enough. And he wouldn’t be able to scratch it. And he’d have to keep wearing his sweats for a few days until he figured out how to button his damn pants with only one hand and the single free thumb of his other hand. The cast went from the tips of his fingers all the way to just before his wrist so he’d get to spend the next several weeks living like a normal human with a broken hand.

Isobel produced a marker from her purse and signed his new cast before leaving for the night. “Get well soon!” she’d written, followed by several X’s and O’s. Thankfully, Kyle did not offer to sign it before he went off to bed.

It wasn’t until he got back to the guest room that he remembered that he’d made a mess of the sheets the previous night. He stripped the bed, already cursing the loss of half his fingers, and gathered the sheets into his arms. Despite doing next to nothing all damn day, he was exhausted. He figured he could dump the sheets into the small washer at the end of the hallway and then just sleep on the floor until they were ready again. He didn’t want to risk sweating all over Kyle’s mattress.

Kyle came out of his room and caught him loading the washer. Shit, he hadn’t thought about the noise. “Is uh… will it bother you if I wash these now? It can wait until morning…”

Kyle opened one of the cupboards that lined the hallway and pulled out another set of sheets. “Nah, it won’t bother me, but I’ll help you put fresh ones on for now so you can rest.”

Michael followed dumbly behind Kyle. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might have more than one set of sheets for the bed.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Kyle was a doctor. He had an apartment with a spare room and a big TV. Of course he had extra sheets. He also had more than just one plate, and fucking throw blankets for his couch. 

Overcome by bitterness, Michael wanted to take it out on Kyle. Tell him that he didn’t deserve all these nice things after the shit he’d pulled in school. It wasn’t fair that the guy who spent so much time making other people miserable got to go off to college, make something of himself, and end up in an apartment with all these nice things. 

Meanwhile, the guy he’d tormented had lost part of his leg and had been condemned to stay in the military to protect someone who didn’t even deserve protecting.

“You okay?”

The question startled Michael out of his thoughts, and he realized that his heart was pounding. He lifted a shaking hand to his chest and swallowed down the insult he wanted to hurl. He couldn’t piss Kyle off. He couldn’t get himself kicked out and dumped on Isobel’s doorstep, not days before the fucking funeral.

“M’fine.” He brushed past Kyle and dropped onto the newly made bed, hoping he’d just leave.

Kyle seemed to get the hint - or maybe he was just tired of dealing with him - and he turned and left the room without another word.

  
  
The next few days passed in a blur of shaky hands and even shakier thoughts. The pamphlet Kyle had given him had said that he might experience “brain fog” and paranoia, though as an alien living undercover on a hostile planet, it was hard to tell the difference between paranoia and wisdom sometimes. As for the fogginess - he was definitely having a hard time gathering his thoughts, but “fog” wasn’t how he’d describe it. It was more like his normally chaotic thought pattern had been dialed up to an 11; his thoughts were racing by him, some too fast to catch. Isobel would ask him a question and his brain would immediately supply him with 6 different ways to answer and then 6 more and then 6 more while he just stared at her unable to say anything.

The fourth day, Kyle had come back from work with a thumb drive that he’d plugged into a laptop. He’d handed Michael the laptop and a pair of headphones and told him to give it a listen. 

It was a folder full of unnamed songs. All instrumentals. Mostly guitar, but a couple were piano, too. All together, it was about an hour of music and Michael listened to it on repeat that day and the next. And frequently thereafter. Sitting on the couch with his eyes closed and the headphones on had become his favorite position. Something about the way the music sounded… a series of chords and notes that were strung together just right… it gave him a little peace and it slowed his racing thoughts just for a little while.

By the time the day of the funeral arrived, the worst of the withdrawal symptoms had started to pass. 

Now he just felt hollowed out and broken. Except for the fact that he was finally sleeping a little better, he wasn’t sure it was much of an improvement.

Kyle had gone to work in the morning, but would be heading straight to the funeral in the afternoon, so Isobel had come over to help him get ready.

Which had meant showing up with a new black button down shirt and dark pants for him. She’d wanted to get him black dress shoes too, but he’d put his foot down - literally. He wouldn’t be able to tie his laces with one hand out of commission and he was not about to walk around a church looking like a five-year-old with his shoes untied every time they came undone.

They had to unbutton the cuff of the sleeve and make a small cut in the seem in order to get it over the stupid cast, but once it was buttoned again on the other side, Isobel said no one would be able to tell. And it’d taken him nearly five minutes, but he’d managed to button his pants himself, thankfully, even though Isobel had stood outside the bathroom asking him if he needed help every 30 seconds.

It was a fucking ordeal, and once he was finally ready he just wanted to get to the church and get it over with. The Evans had planned the funeral, so he was sure it would be both somber and utterly appropriate. 

Michael didn’t know what Isobel had told her parents - he didn’t  _ want  _ to know - but they welcomed him at the door of the church, hugging Isobel and directing an usher to take them to their seats.

Why a funeral needed an usher, Michael couldn’t fathom. Were they afraid people were gonna get rowdy and sit in the wrong spot or something?

As they were guided up the center aisle to their seats at the very front, Michael looked around. Most of the seats were already filled - because of course Isobel had insisted that they couldn’t be the first to arrive.

It seemed like most of the town had come out for it, which he’d expected. Max had been a respectable guy. There were plenty of uniforms in the pews, the Sheriff among them, of course. Liz was there seated beside Arturo, having come back from wherever she’d been. Both of them already had tears in their eyes. 

Kyle was already there, sitting next to Alex… 

Alex was in a dark suit, rather than his uniform, and his eyes were angled down towards his lap as Kyle whispered something in his ear.

He averted his eyes as quickly as he could. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that they were friends now. Apparently good friends. The kind you went to funerals with. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder… had Kyle been reporting to Alex? Had they been discussing his progress as if he were a naughty puppy everyone was trying to get to stop shitting in the house?

His breath hitched, and he angrily swiped under his eyes. It didn’t matter if they did; he deserved it. Because at the end of the day, that’s all he really was: a pet project. An animal they were trying to rehabilitate.

Thankfully, the hollow feeling in his chest returned as he sat beside Isobel in the front row. She latched onto his good hand and squeezed it, leaning into his shoulder as the service began.

He didn’t hear any of it.

  
  
  


After the funeral Isobel was tied up with a “close friends and family-only” thing that the Evans had put together. He was actually grateful that they didn’t think he fit into either of those categories; he had no desire to hang around while they lamented Max’s loss and consoled each other with platitudes about how he’d “gone to a better place.”

But that meant that he had to catch a ride back to the apartment with Kyle.

It was pretty clear that everyone involved had come to some sort of an agreement on how they were going to deal with the mess that was Michael Guerin when Kyle appeared by his side as soon as he stepped back out of the church, Alex nowhere to be found.

“Ready to get out of here?” Kyle asked, jingling his keys.

Michael shrugged, mouth glued shut against all the things he wanted to say, but didn’t dare.  _ For Isobel’s sake _ , he kept telling himself.

The drive back was quiet until Kyle suddenly turned a corner and pulled into a restaurant drive-thru. “I’m tired of leftovers. You want anything?”

“M’ not hungry.”

Kyle shrugged unbothered, and proceeded to order two burritos “in case he got hungry later.”

They’d only made it about halfway back to the apartment when Michael couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fuck you, Valenti.”

Kyle only raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Fuck you, and fuck your burritos. I don’t need you to feed me.”

“Hey, I’ll eat the other one later if you don’t want it. It’s fine.” Kyle looked mildly amused, which made Michael’s blood boil.

“I’m not your fucking project, Valenti. Is this why Alex is hanging out with you? Are you reporting to him? Are you- are you  _ buying _ his forgiveness by rehabilitating me? Is this all some kind of-of-of… of a fucking…” he couldn’t get his brain to settle on a word to describe what he was feeling. The humiliation, the pain of being reduced to a goal on someone’s agenda. A fucking checkbox on his daily planner.

The car rolled to a stop and Kyle turned to face him. “No. No, to all of that. No, you’re not a project. And if you think that Alex’s forgiveness can be bought, then you don’t know him very well.”

Michael ducked his head and ran his good hand through his curls, wishing he could just disappear. He hadn’t meant to imply anything about Alex. He just… he couldn’t figure any of this out. Nothing made sense anymore, and he was so tired of not knowing what to think about anything. He’d never had to worry about that when he was drinking.

“For the record, even though you aren’t technically my patient, I treat what happens at home as if it were covered by doctor-patient privilege. I don’t tell anyone anything except to confirm that you’re staying there, and that you’re doing fine. If anyone wants to know more, they have to ask  _ you  _ about it.”

The worst part was that Michael actually believed him. Which meant that he was just being an asshole. Like always. Dread filled his stomach. And now, thanks to his little outburst, he was probably about to become Isobel’s houseguest. While all her extended family was in town to pay respects to her dead twin.

Or he could just go back to the airstream… even if Isobel had gotten it into her head to clean it out, he knew there was no way she’d found his hidden stash of alcohol. He could go back there and just… forget.

God, he just wanted to forget.

He hated that his voice was strangled when he spoke. “Drop me off at the junkyard.”

“Yeah, not a chance in hell.” Kyle answered quickly, easing the car back onto the road. “You’re not giving up, Guerin. Not today.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bumpy road, but Michael makes some progress. 
> 
> **WARNING:** brief, but painful discussion of child abuse.

Michael had no fight left in him by the time they got back to the apartment. Never mind dinner, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to get out of his damn funeral clothes. 

He headed straight back to the guest room and sat on the bed, trying to find the energy to start working at all the buttons with one hand so he could get his sweats back on. At the moment, it didn’t seem worth the effort.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there staring into space when a knock came at the door. He sighed. “Come in.”

Kyle slipped into the room, having already changed out of his formal wear. He sank to the floor across from the bed, his back against the dresser. “I think it’s time for step two.”

Michael waited for the explanation, since he knew it was coming whether he wanted it or not.

“You’ve done really well-”

Michael scoffed.

“No, you have. You’ve been through detox, which isn’t easy under any circumstances, but you’ve done it while grieving tremendous loss. You’re kicking ass, Guerin, you really are. But if you want real, lasting change, it’s time for you to think about seeing someone.”

He must’ve looked lost because Kyle immediately clarified. “I’m talking about a therapist, Guerin.”

“Right.” Michael nodded slowly. “Someone I can talk to about all the things that are bothering me. Maybe I can explain how I saw my mother in a cage before the government blew her up. Or I can talk about how my brother died bringing someone back to life. Yeah, great idea, Kyle, that could really help.”

Kyle just looked at him, refusing to be bated. “Or, you could talk about how you grew up in the foster care system and didn’t get to meet your mother until right before she died. And you could talk about how your brother died saving someone without stopping to consult you about it.”

Kyle stood. “There are a lot of true things you could say without getting into anything alien. And as messed up as everything seems right now,  _ yeah _ , it really could help.” He walked over to the door and then turned to face him one last time. “Think about it. I can hook you up with someone outside Roswell. No one would have to know unless you wanted them to.”

And then he was gone, and Michael finally laid back. He had a lot to think about.

  
  
  
Michael hated himself. Or at least he hated who he’d become. Which is why he now had Kyle Valenti’s number programmed into his phone, and why he’d just shot him a text that he was leaving for his appointment in Carlsbad.

The drive was a little over an hour… and at first Kyle and Isobel had both insisted that someone should drive him there, but the thought of talking about his feelings and then immediately getting into a car with someone else for that long had made him veto that right away. If he was doing this, he was doing it on  _ his  _ terms, and that meant that he went alone.

The only concession he’d made was that he’d text Kyle when he was leaving for his appointment, and again when he was finished and headed back. 

The drive there was boring, but Michael had come prepared. He’d used the laptop to transfer those music files from the thumb drive over to his phone, so he’d have something soothing to listen to there and back.

The first appointment was easy, if a little awkward. The doctor had kind eyes, and an aversion to bullshit. Even after giving her a basic outline of the shitstorm that was his life, she assured him that everything he’d mentioned - his bad coping mechanisms, his anger, his self-hatred - were all common, reasonable reactions to trauma. So common, in fact, that she’d pointed to an entire bookshelf filled with books and said that those and many others had been written to help address the issues he mentioned. 

So apparently, alien or not, he wasn’t as unique as he thought. He found that thought more comforting than he expected. 

Afterwards he was feeling better than he had in a while, so he swung by the Crashdown on his way back to grab a couple of burgers for him and Kyle. The doc was supposed to be off work by the time he got back, and he hoped that if he showed up with burgers, Kyle would be too busy eating to say “I told you so” about the therapy.

As soon as he entered the diner, Arturo came around the counter and pulled him into a hug. “So glad you came by! How’s the hand feeling? Is it healing okay?”

He stiffened in shock at first, but then hugged Arturo back. “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s healing great.”

“I’m so glad. What can I get for you, Michael? Other than a shake - that’s on the house.”

“Uh.. just a couple of burgers and fries.”

When Arturo found out he was having dinner with Kyle, he sent him home with extra fries and another shake because “those doctors never get enough to eat.”

  
  
  


His weekly session in Carlsbad established, Michael started helping Isobel clean out Max’s house. He wasn’t sure what was happening to the house itself, but Isobel said they had some time to get all his stuff sorted and packed, so they’d be working on that most days. Max had been more of a packrat than he’d realized; his books alone were going to take forever to go through.

“So how was therapy yesterday?” 

Michael glanced up to see Isobel studiously focused on the pile of books in front of her rather than looking back at him. “It was fine.”

He picked up Max’s copy of King Lear, flipping through it quickly to make sure he hadn’t left anything inside of it. Max had been the type to leave things - notes, receipts, letters, drawings - inside his books, so they were going through each book just to make sure it was empty before sorting into boxes for donation.

“You going back then?”

He sighed, tossing King Lear into a box and grabbing The Odyssey. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up with the classics while Isobel had an entire section of fantasy novels piled around her. “Yeah, every week, Iz.”

She finally looked over at him, sending him a watery smile. “That’s really good, Michael.”

He swallowed. “How’s it coming with the TK?” 

She allowed the change of subject, tilting her chin at a box across the room that lifted off the floor and flew over to settle near her feet. “Better every day.”

“Good. Hope you can do that when it’s filled with books because I’m down a hand.” He waved his casted hand at her. “This thing is a pain in the ass.”

“Can you imagine being human and having that kind of thing just be  _ normal _ ? Like, you get hurt or sick and you’re just… out of commission for weeks at a time?”

His mind immediately jumped to Alex, wondering what it must’ve been like to lose his leg and be in recovery for who-knows-how-long only to still emerge with a permanent limitation. “No, I can’t imagine it.”

Having almost no use of one hand for a few weeks sucked, but Michael supposed it was a stupid thing to complain about. His hand wasn’t even broken - other people had it so much worse.

He wondered if his thoughts would ever stop circling back around to Alex every few minutes, and more telling, if he even  _ wanted  _ them to stop.

He dropped The Odyssey into the box and pinched the bridge of his nose with his good hand. He was finding that he’d get headaches when he hadn’t slept enough, and last night had definitely been one of those nights. Not even from nightmares or anything. He’d just had so many racing thoughts after therapy, playing the session over and over in his mind… imagining how he’d describe everything to Alex. He hadn’t been able to sleep for hours.

“Need some acetone?” 

“I uh… I actually quit acetone.”

“What? Why? Acetone isn’t alcohol, Michael. You’re allowed to have some if you’re in pain.”

“I know but… Iz, I’d been… I’d been drinking too much before - misusing it. I was adding it to all my drinks, and taking it afterwards… sometimes before… I don’t know if we can even  _ get _ addicted to it, but since I’m trying to get clean, I figured I should stop. Just in case. At least for now.”

Because going through detox had been awful and it was something he never wanted to do again. If there was any chance his body had grown dependent on acetone, he wanted to put a stop to it now. He wasn’t quitting alcohol only to end up in trouble with acetone and needing to detox all over again. 

Isobel looked like she was going to say something, but then a paper fell out of the book she was holding. She snatched it up and opened it, a soft smile on her face.

“What is it? A poem about Liz’s eyes? Her luscious hair? The way her toe nails glimmer when she wears sandals?”

She giggled, holding the paper up for him to see. “Better. It’s a self-portrait we had to do in middle school.”

Michael squinted, tilting his head. “It looks like an evil clown.”

“Maybe that’s why he wanted to be a writer; he was a shitty artist.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon methodically going through Max’s books, sharing anything they found in them. They worked until dinner and they hadn’t managed to finish even one of his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

By the time they were eating in Max’s kitchen Michael was yawning too frequently to hide. “Sorry, I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Things are okay with Kyle, though? You’re okay staying there a little longer?”

He and Kyle had already had this discussion, and Michael was ninety percent sure that Isobel had already talked to Kyle as well. Still, he played along.

“Yeah. I mean… he’s still an ass and I hate him-” He smirked, not even sure he could say that convincingly anymore. “-but I don’t know if I trust myself to go back to the airstream yet. Kyle’s got the spare room, and he said I could stay as long as I stayed sober so… might as well.”

“It’s good that you’re not alone.”

It was true; he wasn’t alone in the house. And something about just knowing that someone else was nearby was actually more comforting than he thought it’d be. Even if that someone was a guy who went to bed insanely early every night so he could wake up and the crack of dawn to go for a run and then go to work. Michael still hadn’t figured out why he didn’t use the treadmill in the mornings, either. He always went for a jog outside. 

Hopefully it was because he enjoyed the fresh air, and not because he was afraid the noise would wake Michael up. The last thing he wanted was for Kyle to be changing things around for him. 

  
  
  


Wednesdays at the Crashdown became sort of a weekly ritual. He’d text Kyle when he was leaving therapy, and Kyle would reply with the time he expected to get off work. If it was early enough that Kyle was going to be home for dinner, then Michael would swing by to see Arturo and pick them up some food. If Kyle had to stay late and planned to eat at the hospital, he'd still swing by and get himself something. 

Therapy was hard, some days harder than others, but he was learning that he liked the routine of it. He knew exactly what he’d be doing every Wednesday afternoon, and what he’d be having for dinner every Wednesday evening. Then the other days of the week were taken up by his work at Max’s house.

And things went pretty smooth for the first few weeks until one of the sessions hit him harder than he’d expected. 

They’d been working on a life map of all the events Michael could think of that he still attached strong emotion to. It’d been his homework for a while, but he’d approached it as clinically as he could. From the time a foster parent had made him sleep in the backyard, to the first time he’d been left without dinner… he cataloged each event on his timeline, separating his emotions from the event so he could get them all written down.

And when he’d finally finished, they’d started to go over it together. He had to look at each event and talk about how he’d felt when it’d happened, and what truth he’d tell his younger self about it now.

He’d been hurt, he’d been scared, he’d felt unloved and unwanted when he’d had to sleep in the yard with the dog. But they’d talked about how the truth was that he hadn’t deserved that. He’d deserved love and safety, and the fact that he hadn’t gotten that from his foster family was in no way his fault. 

It was stupid, and he hated it. Because of _course_ he knew all that shit. He knew kids didn’t deserve to be treated like that. But when his doctor had told him to say it - to tell her the truth - not that kids  _ in general _ didn’t deserve that treatment, but that  _ little Michael _ hadn’t deserved it… 

… it’d hit him like a knife to the chest. Because he  _ knew  _ it was true, but somehow he hadn’t  _ felt  _ it before.

When the session was over, he stumbled to the parking lot, climbed into his truck, and just cried. The doctor had been telling him all along that it was okay to grieve what his child self had suffered, but he hadn’t been able to before; he’d been so used to pushing it all down for years. But now that he’d opened himself up to that grief, it felt like he’d drown in it.

He gasped and sobbed and shook, finally allowing himself to feel it. The despair of being left alone, the agony of not understanding what he'd done wrong or how to fix it, the pain of knowing that he was cold while the rest of the family was inside warm. It hadn't been fair, and he hadn't deserved it. But it'd happened, and he deserved the chance to grieve.

When he was finally empty of tears and worn out from crying, he remembered that he hadn’t turned his phone back on after his session. “Shit…” It’d been an hour and a half since the session ended.

His stomach twisted when he saw that he had 12 unread messages and 6 missed calls. Isobel was probably freaking out… she probably thought he’d gone to a bar or something. He called her back before Kyle, since he couldn’t tell from Kyle’s messages whether or not he was still at work.

“Michael! Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Sorry, I forgot to turn my phone back on after my session. I’m fine.”

“Where are you? You don’t sound okay.” From the background noise it sounded like Isobel was already grabbing her keys.

“Iz, I’m  _ fine _ . I’m in the therapy parking lot. I just… it was a hard session and I needed a little time. I’m gonna head back now, okay?”

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m sure.”

Isobel made him agree to stay off his phone during the drive, and she promised to let Kyle know what’d happened so he didn’t “send out a search party.” 

He frowned, and hung up. Sure, he had a few missed messages from Kyle, but he doubted the guy was “search-party” level worried. If anything he’d probably gone home to make sure Michael hadn’t brought back tequila and decided to trash his place or something.

Which he wouldn’t. Ever. He doubted Kyle knew it, but Michael already felt hopelessly in debt to Kyle - there was no way he’d add to it by going on a bender in the guy’s living room. If he was gonna fall off the wagon, he’d do it someplace that wouldn’t mess up anyone else’s day, that was for damn sure.

But he hadn’t fallen off the wagon. And as much as his chest was aching and his eyes still hurt from all his crying, he hadn’t gone out to buy a drink. And he wouldn’t. Not today.

Today was all he could worry about.

By the time he made it back to the apartment, it was well after dinner. He hadn’t eaten, but he still felt jagged and a little shaky and was just looking forward to falling into bed and passing out.

He’d barely gotten his key in the door when it was pulled open by Kyle. He stepped back in shock at first, and then grimaced. Isobel had said she’d let Kyle know what’d happened - he hoped he’d believed her and he wasn’t about to get breathalyzed by an angry Kyle.

Instead, he felt himself pulled in for a quick hug and then immediately drawn into the apartment. 

“You all right?” Kyle’s voice held nothing but concern.

If he’d come to the door in a tutu and ballet slippers and had proceeded to perform Swan Lake in front of him, Michael would’ve been less shocked. As it was, he could barely figure out what to say.

“I’m fine. Isobel called you, right?”

“Yeah, she said you had a hard session. Have you eaten?” Kyle led him over to the couch and gently pushed on his shoulders until Michael sat.

“I’m not really hungry…” he trailed off. Kyle had already turned and disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with a protein bar and a bottled water.

He handed the items over and then plopped down beside him on the couch.

“Wow, I must really look like shit if I get one of your precious protein bars.”

“You sure do.” Kyle confirmed, patting his shoulder. Then turned on the TV to some random nature program. 

Michael tore open the top of the protein bar and bit into it, watching a tiny bear cub hitching a ride on its mother’s back as they crossed a river. As he chewed he tried to decide what to say to Kyle, but his brain was too tired to be of any help, so he sat silently finishing the snack and sipping the water while the bears on screen started frolicking in a meadow.

By the time he was finished the pain in his chest had lessened and his head was heavy, but a little clearer than it had been. He crumpled his trash, and was ready to stand and throw it away before going to his room when Kyle suddenly spoke.

“I’m sorry I was such a dick in high school.”

The irritation rose automatically, an ingrained reaction to this kind of bullshit. “I’m not the one you were a dick to, so don’t bother apologizing to me.” He wanted to add ‘apologize to Alex’ but he was pretty sure Kyle already had. 

“I was a homophobic asshole, Guerin. And you and Alex were…” He took a deep breath and restarted. “How many kids were scared to come out because of the stupid shit I said? How many young people did I force to stay in the closet because they saw the way I terrorized Alex? Because I was a bully, acting like just another small-minded bigot?”

Kyle leaned forward, running a hand over his face before turning back towards Michael. “I’m sorry for the asshole I was in school, and I apologize for any effect it had on _you_ having to hear that shit. You don’t have to forgive me - that’s not a condition of living here at all, but I just wanted you to know. And if you  _ do _ forgive me one day, I’d like the chance to be friends.”

Michael could only stare at him as Kyle nodded to himself, then quietly got up and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael's trying to take some of his therapy lessons to heart, and he's learning to be a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this story is moving at a glacial pace. I wanted more to happen in this part, but Michael refuses to be rushed. And honestly, I'm really enjoying letting him take his time to heal and to learn in ways that the show never lets him.

“Michael, come look at this!” 

He looked up from the box he was packing to see Isobel holding up a photo. “What is it?”

“A picture from a field trip we took in… maybe third grade? I think this might be one of the earliest photos of Max and I together. I mean, apart from the creepy studio ones our parents have hanging in their living room.”

Michael climbed to his feet and stepped over the various piles of Max’s belongings before dropping down next to Isobel. Leaning in for a better look, he immediately recognized Max’s head of dark floppy hair and his long-suffering expression. He was holding what looked like a giant spool of twine, and a little Isobel, blond braids and huge smile, was standing beside him holding the loose end.

“What the hell were you doing?”

Isobel shrugged. “I don’t know. They took us to some kind of frontier place to show us the ‘wisdom of the past.’ We were learning to make rope or something.”

“Max looks _real_ impressed.”

“He wanted to go first, but we’d just learned the expression ‘ladies first’ and I was using it to my advantage.” She shot him a mischievous smile. 

It was good to see Isobel smiling again, talking about Max without the sharp edge of pain that’d been there before. Even though they’d known he was dead well before everyone else in town, it seemed like the funeral had reopened the wound and made her restart the grieving process all over again.

Or maybe it was just another part of the process… his therapist had been telling him that grief wasn’t linear. He shook his head, focusing back in on the moment.

“You guys were cute.” 

She suddenly thrust the photo towards him. “You keep it. You don’t have anything of us that young.”

He took the photo reverently, a now-familiar bubble of sadness rising up in his chest. He couldn’t give Isobel a photo of himself at that age - there weren’t any. He blinked, dismayed to feel a hot tear tracking down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away and took a deep breath, wondering if he’d ever get over the past.

Isobel wiped at her own face and suddenly stood, reaching down to pull him to his feet. “Come on, we deserve ice cream.”

  
  
  


The Crashdown looked different in the daylight after visiting at night for so long. It was close enough to the lunch hour that the tables were already filling up, but since it was just him and Isobel, they decided they’d just sit at the counter anyway. 

A server Michael didn’t recognize came by to drop off menus, but after a few minutes Arturo came out of the kitchen, a huge smile on his face.

“Michael! I missed you last night!”

“Sorry, I got caught up in something. Missed your milkshakes too much to stay away for the whole week, though.”

His face fell. “Unfortunately, the shake machine isn’t working. The repairman has already come twice this month - I can’t afford to bring him back yet. Sometimes if we kick it a few times, it starts up again… so maybe it’ll be working next time.”

“I could take a look at it.” The offer was out of his mouth before he’d even thought about it, though even given the chance to think it over, it was something he wanted to do. Arturo had been nothing but kind to him. He’d been working on trying to be okay with accepting help without immediately thinking about repayment, but he also had to balance that with the fact that he really _did_ enjoy helping. It felt good when he could be useful to someone.

Arturo smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good boy. But the machine is tricky… I don’t think you could fix it with one hand.”

Isobel leaned in. “His cast is coming off tomorrow.”

And holy shit she was right. He’d totally forgotten about that. He smiled at Arturo. “I could come by Saturday?”

“If you think it won’t be too much for your hand so soon after, then you’re welcome to come take a look.”

Arturo took their orders himself - a couple sandwiches with a basket of fries and drinks since the shakes weren’t available - then went back into the kitchen.

Isobel looked at him. “You’re a good boy, Michael.”

He bumped her shoulder. “Shut up.”

Once the food came they ate in companionable silence, which gave Michael a chance to try to put into practice another therapy tool. His therapist insisted that he call them “tools” because she said he was doing all the hard work; she was just making sure he had the right tools. 

He was working on just being present. Thinking about the past and dealing with his feelings were good, but there was a time and a place for that and he was working on being able to _choose_ the time and place rather than letting it overtake him at the wrong time. So right now, he wasn’t going to think about the past or the future or other things he could be doing. He just thought about things that were happening in the moment. How good the fries tasted. The cold tanginess of his lemonade. The hum of the midday crowd all over the diner ordering, eating, and laughing. 

Right now he was safe and he wasn’t hungry, and he had Isobel right beside him… it was a good place to be.

“Hey, man! Long time no see!”

Michael looked down the counter to see Forrest settling in a few chairs over. Despite their little war over at the library, he’d been nothing but kind to him out at the Long farm.

“Hey! Finally escaped the library, huh?” 

Forrest chuckled. “Yeah well it was a lot easier to finish my research once _someone_ stopped hogging the microfiche.” 

“Glad to be of service.”

“So did you finish your story?”

“Nah, I kinda hit a dead end.” Michael suddenly remembered the schematic he’d borrowed from Forrest. “Oh shit! Your drawing! Sorry, I totally forgot I had it! I can drop it off sometime - just let me know when you’ll be there to stop your cousin from shooting me.”

Forrest grinned. “Nah, it’s cool. Just give it to Mr. Ortecho next time you’re in here. I can pick it up later.”

“Will do.”

Though she didn’t say anything during the whole exchange, Michael knew Isobel had to be curious, so he explained as she started the car to drive them back. He told her how he’d met Forrest and what he’d learned about his mother and the night of the crash.

“I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about this. I was at the library for weeks looking into this.”

“Honestly, I’m not surprised. With everything that’s happened… it’s been a lot.”

“Yeah. So… speaking of ‘a lot’...”

Isobel took her eyes off the road long enough to arch an eyebrow at him. Thanks to a couple red lights, they hadn't made it more than a few blocks.

“Do you mind if we swing by my trailer on the way back? I need to grab the schematic I got from Forrest.”

She agreed immediately, which was no surprise. He knew he’d been doing all right lately - breakdown after therapy last night aside - but he also knew that she still didn’t trust him to be alone at the airstream. Which was fair; he didn’t trust himself either. 

Going back was surreal and mundane all at the same time. Everything looked exactly like he remembered… nothing was out of place. 

Except him. For some reason _he_ felt out of place here now. Like the Old Michael and the New Michael were incompatible parts. They might look alike, but one of them just didn’t fit.

It was unsettling to look at his old life and realize that he didn’t fit anymore. Or maybe it was the life that didn’t fit _him_.

Isobel nudged him. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I just - I don’t feel like I’ve changed that much or even made much progress but... “

“It doesn’t feel the same here anymore?”

“Yeah,” he agreed softly.

He and Isobel went just far enough into the trailer to grab Forrest’s schematic that he’d left carefully preserved in a plastic ziplock. Once they were back in the car, he turned to her. 

“I need a favor.”

He described exactly where he’d hidden the last of his liquor and then sat in the car while Isobel went back to dump it all out. Not that he was afraid he’d immediately start drinking it if he saw it but… he just didn’t want to be near it. He didn’t want to see it and remember how he’d hid it. He didn’t want to think about all the nights he’d-

 _No._

He took a deep breath and ran his good hand over his jean clad leg, forcing himself to pay attention to the just-barely-there texture after so much wear. It was warm in the car, the afternoon sun slanting in through the windshield, but blocked from his eyes by the visor. The windows were down and the air outside was crisp and cool. 

Another breath. It smelled like warm metal and motor oil outside. There were birds chirping nearby, they seemed to like to build nests in the shady gaps between the pieces of junk piled on the east side of the yard that hadn’t been touched for years. In fact, if Michael didn’t know better he’d have to wonder if Sanders had left it like that on purpose - a bird sanctuary only dressed up like a junk heap.

There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere... something about beauty living in rough places... but Michael let it go with another breath. He was safe here in Isobel's car. He'd just had a good lunch, and he was about to head back to Max's house to help Isobel keep working on the place. He felt... productive. Things were good right here, right now.

When Isobel emerged from the airstream, she hopped back into the car and playfully gave his shoulder a shove. “I’m proud of you, little brother.”

“Hey, who says you’re older?”

“I can just tell.”

  
  
  


Kyle cut the cast off the next night after he was home from work. He looked tired, which wasn’t necessarily unusual for him, but he seemed to be avoiding looking at Michael. His voice was flat as he described the process and reminded Michael that he’d have some dry skin on his hand, and might be sore for a little while. He went through the motions of showing him a couple stretches and strengthening exercises he could do and promised that his hand would feel good as new soon with a dull tone.

Michael tried not to take it personally, he really did. He’d asked Kyle when he’d first arrived looking like shit if everyone was okay, and Kyle had told him everything was fine.

So if everything was fine, why was he acting like Dr. Robot?

Once the cast was off, Michael pulled his hand into his lap and stared down at it, flexing it and wincing with the pain of finally being able to move it again. He decided that if Kyle was going to ignore him, he’d ignore Kyle right back. It was the least damaging response he could think of.

Once in bed, Michael opened his phone and did a little research on the maintenance and repair of milkshake machines. He couldn’t imagine they’d be too complicated, but he figured it didn’t hurt to prepare. He just hoped that Arturo would have tools at the diner, though if he didn’t, there was a hardware store downtown… he’d figure it out.

His last thoughts as he drifted off were of motor assemblies and manifold valves.

  
  
  
He woke to a thumping sound. Rolling over, he listened carefully, trying to figure out what it could be and whether or not it was something that would require him to actually move from the warm bed. The thumps were soft, coming at quick, but even intervals. Maybe the washing machine had an uneven load? He didn’t remember Kyle putting any laundry in the machine, but he couldn’t think of what else would cause that kind of a thump.

It didn’t have the right cadence for the washing machine, though, and after a few minutes he realized that the machine would’ve stopped by now and beeped to signal an uneven load. He sighed and rolled out of bed, grateful at least that the bedroom floor was carpeted so he didn’t have to suffer the shock of a cold floor on his warm feet.

The thumping definitely wasn’t coming from anywhere inside his room, so he slipped on a shirt just in case what he was hearing was actually a really incompetent criminal doing who-knows-what. Maybe stealing Kyle’s big ass TV in the stupidest way possible.

He padded by Kyle’s bedroom door quietly, even though if he woke up it was his own damn fault for always leaving his door cracked open. It was one thing to say 'come get me if you need something' and another to just refuse to close your damn door.

He stopped short when he got to the living room and realized that the thumping he’d been hearing was Kyle’s feet on the damn treadmill at - he looked at the digital clock that sat right under the TV - 2 in the morning.

“What the hell are you doing?” The stupid treadmill was still behind the couch, facing a blank wall. Kyle was running at a brisk pace, seeming unaware of anything around him.

As he came around the front of the couch he noticed that Kyle didn’t have anything in his ears, so he wasn’t listening to music or a podcast or anything. And from what he could see of his face, he was wearing a blank expression again, even while breathing hard from the exertion of the run.

_What the actually fuck…_

He raised his voice slightly, wondering if Kyle hadn’t even heard him the first time. “Kyle! What the hell- why are you running in the middle of the night?”

No reaction, so he raised his voice a little more. “Kyle!”

Kyle finally reacted, putting his feet on the sidebars and hitting the button to stop the machine. Once the track below him stopped moving, he stepped off the side of the machine, slumping a little against the handrail. 

“What?” he asked around his panting.

“ _What?_ What do you mean what? Why the hell are you running in the middle of the night?” _Staring dead-eyed into nothing_ , he wanted to add.

“Why, did I wake you?” Kyle snatched up a small towel that had been draped over the back of the couch and looped it over the back of his neck, dabbing at his face.

Michael ignored the question. “You always run outside in the morning… I didn’t even think you _used_ this thing.”

Kyle shrugged. “Felt like running now.”

Something was very clearly wrong with Kyle. And actually, as Michael thought about it, it occurred to him that Kyle had been acting strange ever since he’d come home from work. He wondered if this was just a continuation of the same thing.

“What happened at work?”

Kyle made a face he couldn’t interpret. “Nothing.” He tossed the towel aside and started for the kitchen.

Michael followed behind him, irritation rising. “Nothing? So you just came back from work tonight acting like a fucking robot for no reason? And then you decide to go for a run in a dark room facing a blank wall in the middle of the night because nothing’s wrong? You’re full of shit.”

“Fuck you, Guerin! Why do you even care?” Kyle spat, filling a glass with water from the sink.

“You’re the one who wanted to be friends, you fucking hypocrite! So what? I’m supposed to accept all this help from you, but when you _clearly_ need help I’m just supposed to look the other way?”

Kyle tossed the empty cup - thankfully, a plastic one - into the sink. “Fine! You want to know what’s bothering me? I lost a patient, okay? A fucking kid. Ten fucking years old and now he’s dead. Happy?”

Michael took half a step back, mind racing. He didn’t know how this was supposed to work. He didn’t know what friends were supposed to say to each other when bad things happened. He couldn't think of anything that would be of any use to Kyle.

He sighed, deciding all he could do was be honest. “No, I’m not happy. That fucking sucks.”

Then he went back into the living room and grabbed the TV remote, setting it to the nature channel like Kyle had done before. “Come on and sit down,” he called. “You can’t run all night.”

He settled onto the couch and waited. After a minute, Kyle wandered over and sat beside him. 

On the screen in front of them, a group of dolphins was swimming through a large school of fish while the narrator talked about ‘life in the pod.’ 

Despite the serene picture on the television, Michael’s stomach filled with dread. He didn’t actually know _how_ to be a friend. He’d never really had one. He didn’t count Max and Isobel either, because being a group of three literal aliens all alone in the world made for a different kind of relationship. One that he imagined was closer to what having siblings was like. They’d irritated the shit out of him sometimes, but they were bound together in a way that typical friends weren’t.

“You can’t-” he cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on the screen. “You can’t say you want to be friends if this is only gonna go one direction. I don’t know what friends are supposed to do in times like these, but I’m pretty sure ignoring you while you run to punish yourself all night isn’t it.”

And even as he said it, he realized that it was true; Kyle had been punishing himself. He thought back to when he’d first come to stay - the stupid treadmill had been set up in the spare bedroom facing a totally blank wall instead of the nearby window. When he’d moved it out to the living room, he’d set it up the same way. At the time, Michael had thought that maybe Kyle was just too lazy to move the couch over so the treadmill could face the TV but now Michael understood; the treadmill wasn’t ever meant to be a fun thing.

Kyle stayed quiet during Michael’s disturbing revelation but then finally spoke up in a raspy voice. “You could ask me if I want to talk about it. That’s what friends do.”

He glanced over to see that Kyle’s eyes were still glued to the screen. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“What? But-”

“That’s just what friends usually ask. Then you just have to respect their answer.” 

Michael snorted. Having friends was going to be a pain in the ass, he could already tell. 

Going from working up a sweat to sitting still on the couch had made Kyle start to shiver. “Fine. Do I also have to respect you wanting to freeze to death? Or am I allowed to intervene?”

Without waiting for an answer, Michael grabbed the fuzzy throw blanket from beside him and tossed it over Kyle.

Quiet descended again as the dolphins raced through the water, weaving and dodging around each other.

It didn’t seem like Kyle was going to say anything else, so Michael stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Eventually, his eyelids started getting heavy, but he’d decided he wasn’t going to go back to bed until Kyle did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael helps Arturo, gets his heart broken, and then starts learning how to help himself.

He woke up covered with a throw blanket - not the one Kyle had used; that one was piled beside him. Michael wondered just _how many throw blankets Kyle had_. He sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders to stretch his neck and upper back. He was going to have to figure out a different ‘friend-thing’ to do for Kyle because sleeping on the couch sucked.

He almost laughed at the thought. Here he was, the guy who’d been found passed out on the floor of a trailer, being picky about sleeping on a couch in a warm apartment. He was getting spoiled.

Clattering from the kitchen told him that Kyle was up - probably making breakfast because apparently whether or not he actually slept at night, he was up every morning like clockwork. 

_Morning people._

He flexed his hand, trying to work out the stiffness. It hurt a little, but it was better than being immobilized in a cast. And now… now he was going to be able to go out in public with his hand healed and uncovered and no one would look twice. The thought put a nervous flutter in his stomach that he didn’t want to examine too closely. 

After breakfast, Michael invited Kyle to come along with him to the Crashdown since he didn’t have work. He wasn’t sure if Kyle still needed a distraction, or if it had more to do with calming his _own_ nerves at going out in public with his hand healed for the first time. Either way, Kyle agreed so it was a win-win.

They took their time eating, cleaning up, and getting ready, neither in a hurry to go anywhere after the night’s upheaval. When they were ready to go, Michael grabbed the schematic, still encased in the plastic bag, so he could leave it with Arturo for Forrest. 

“What’s that?” 

“Just a piece of history Forrest Long let me borrow.” He didn’t think he was quite ready to haul his mother’s fate out into polite conversation with Kyle. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”

“Forrest Long? You guys are friends?”

“Nah. We met at the library when I was doing some research a while back. Seems like a good guy, though.”

Kyle hummed a non-reply, then fell quiet as they headed out. Once they were almost to the diner he said, “Thanks for last night, Guerin.”

Michael wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Please never say those words again.”

Kyle laughed, the bastard.

  
  
  
They arrived before the start of the lunch rush, which meant that if he hurried, he could possibly have the machine up and running for the lunchtime crowd. He was about to head straight back towards the kitchen to ask for Arturo when he spotted Forrest sitting in one of the booths along the far wall, writing in a small journal.

He left Kyle standing at the front counter and went over to say hi. “Hey, man! I was about to give your drawing to Arturo, but I guess now I can give it to you.” He set the bag down on the table beside the menu. “If I’d known you were gonna be here today, I would’ve told you I was coming to fix the shake machine when I saw you last.”

Forrest grinned. “I didn’t know I was gonna be here when I saw you Thursday but... “ he leaned forward with a defiant gleam in his eye “there’s this guy that I really like and he finally agreed to a date so... “ he spread his arms to encompass the booth “here I am!”

Michael nodded, assuming that the look in Forrest’s eye was him just waiting to see if he was going to ruffle the feathers of another small-town homophobe. _Not today, Forrest._

“Good move. The Crashdown is pretty lowkey, low pressure for a first date. Good luck, man!”

Arturo came out and led him and Kyle back into the kitchen where the shake machine sat. It turned out that he _did_ have a tool box, so he decided to make Kyle his assistant for the job.

Unfortunately, Kyle had almost no knowledge of what the individual tools looked like or what they were called, so he became the lookout for Michael as he summoned them into his own hands with his TK.

Arturo had been right; this would not have been possible with just one hand. As it was, the hand that’d been in the cast was a little sore from all the maneuvering he was doing, but in the end he fixed it. It took about twenty minutes, just because he’d never opened up a machine like this before, but once he found the problem, it was easy enough. 

He handed the last tool to Kyle to set back into the toolbox, and stood, wiping his hands on his pants as Arturo hurried over for the verdict. “Got it working. It’ll be fine for a while, but it’s gonna need a part replaced.”

Before Arturo could start talking about trying to pay for the part, Michael added, “Don’t worry about that, though. A connection I’ve got through the junkyard can get me the part for nothing. I’ll come back and replace it once it comes in.”

Arturo pulled him in for a hug, then pulled Kyle in along with him. “Thank you, boys! Now you need to stay for shakes! On the house!” He ushered them out into the dining area and pushed them towards some seats at the front counter.

Michael sighed, smiling to himself. Helping Arturo felt good; it was a nice feeling. 

Kyle nudged him with an elbow. “Do you really have a connection that can get you free milkshake machine parts?”

“Not even a little. But I didn’t want him to worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” He’d seen online part suppliers when he’d been researching repairs last night so he knew he could get the part easily enough. 

Arturo returned a few minutes later with shakes in to-go cups. “You get the very first ones! Thanks again, Michael! Enjoy!”

Shakes in hand, they slid off their stools and turned to go. A nap was starting to sound really good right about now. But on the way out Michael happened to glance towards Forrest’s table and felt his brain come to a grinding halt, his good mood instantly evaporating.

Alex and Forrest were sitting together on the same side of the booth, holding hands on top of the table while engaged in what was clearly a very entertaining conversation judging by the way they were smiling and laughing.

Kyle ran into his back as Michael stumbled. “Whoa...” Then he must’ve noticed the direction Michael was staring because he cursed quietly. 

Michael just… went blank. It felt like he was free falling off the side of a cliff.

He was staring, but no longer really seeing anything when he felt Kyle tugging on his arm. “Come on, man, let’s go.”

His eyes slanted down towards his boots as he followed Kyle numbly out the door. 

_Left, right, left, right_ … _one foot in front of the other_ \- it was all he had room for in his brain. 

Before he even blinked they were back in the car, then they were at the apartment. Then Michael was dumping his shake down the sink and rinsing the cup out - because they didn’t want ants - and dropping the to-go cup into the trash. 

He distantly noted that his hands were shaking. That was weird. 

“Michael…” 

Kyle was trying to talk to him, but the words washed over him, meaningless. 

“Gonna wash up,” he muttered through numb lips, heading back towards the bathroom.

He locked the door, then turned on the shower and sank to the floor, his back to the bathroom door. 

He could feel it… the falling. He couldn’t see the bottom, but he knew it was close. The crash landing.

Because falling always meant hitting the ground.

He finally broke, leaning forward to sob quietly into the bathmat, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. 

He only had himself to blame. He’d fucked up. He’d always been the one fucking up. From getting himself locked up the day Alex left just so he wouldn’t have to say goodbye, to drinking and fighting so his absence wouldn’t hurt as much - _it never worked_ \- to finally pushing Alex completely out of his life. 

He should be happy for him. That he’d found someone. He _wanted_ to be happy for him. 

He just couldn’t. No matter what he did, no matter how much time passed, his stupid battered heart belonged to Alex Manes and always would.

He couldn’t believe how _stupid_ he’d been. He’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted: Alex had moved on from him and found someone else - someone _nice_ \- to be happy with. He’d been stupid to ever think that he’d survive it - seeing Alex with someone else.

Then again, the truth was that when he’d pushed Alex out of his life, he hadn’t expected to survive it. He’d been on a downward spiral and he’d ejected Alex from his life to save him. 

And now when there was a slim chance that maybe, maybe he might be able to turn things around, maybe he might figure out how not to be such a fucking waste… it was too late.

Fuck, it just _hurt_.

He opened his eyes when his back started to ache. His folded-up legs had already gone numb sometime during his stupid dramatic meltdown so he carefully unfolded himself and reached over to turn the water off, grimacing as his breath hitched. He hated breaking down.

  
  
When he exited the bathroom he found Kyle sitting on the floor at the other end of the hall. He didn’t bother trying to explain why his hair was still dry even though the shower had been running, but he figured if Kyle had felt the need to wait for him, he probably didn’t need to.

Plus, he was sure his red face and still-hitching breath easily gave away the truth about what he’d been doing. 

He slid down the wall to sit across from Kyle in the hallway, pulling his knees to his chest.

Kyle’s voice was quiet and gentle. “I didn’t know they were dating, Michael. And I _definitely_ didn’t know they’d be there today.”

Michael shrugged. “Alex deserves to be happy.”

He heard Kyle inhale like he was about to say something, so Michael spoke before he could. “Now that the cast is off, I need to get back to work.”

“Yeah, I figured. You’re still staying here, though, right?”

Michael only nodded, not wanting to admit that if he hadn’t come back to the apartment with Kyle he might’ve left the diner and headed straight for the closest bottle. 

  
  
  
He got a text from Isobel on Sunday saying that something had come up and she wouldn’t be able to meet with him at Max’s house. Which Michael was fine with because he’d woken up in a bad mood and it was all he could do to try to keep to himself so he wouldn’t take it out on Kyle; he didn’t need to have another person around he’d have to be careful with.

His therapist had been telling him that being angry or upset wasn’t wrong, but there was a wrong way to handle it. Drinking and fighting had been his go-to for years, but it’d never helped him any. She’d been urging him to look for another way to deal with his anger, but her suggestions of punching pillows or writing in a journal had just made him roll his eyes. He needed something physical. Something that would make him too tired to think about how fucking unfair life had been to him, or how badly he’d messed everything up. 

When he finally came out of his room after hiding most of the day, he found Kyle sitting on the couch fiddling with his phone.

He dropped down next to him, trying to decide how best to broach the topic without being a dick. But before he could, Kyle waved his phone at him.

“Hey, do you think you’ll be okay if I go out for a while?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter, Kyle. I’m fine.”

Kyle looked him over - it felt like an assessment. “All right. I won’t be too late.”

“Yeah, I know. Because you always get up at the ass crack of dawn to run.”

Kyle went back to his phone, which Michael could now tell was a text conversation. “Hey uh… how would you feel about some company in the morning?”

Kyle’s mouth dropped open. “For my run?”

“No, Kyle, I thought I’d crawl into your bed for a cuddle. Yes, for your fucking run.”

He smirked. “Yeah, sure. I mean… if you think you could keep up. You know I go at 5am, right?”

“I can get up early when I need to. Just… I’ll be ready.” He stood up and headed towards the front door.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To buy some fucking running shoes,” he replied. 

  
  
  


He forced himself out of bed the next morning by promising himself that he’d be back early enough to take a quick nap before he went to work. Besides, Sanders wouldn’t mind if he didn’t get there right at opening time; he could always stay a little later to make up for it.

But by the time he got back and he was slipping out of his new running shoes and pulling the sweaty t-shirt over his head, he was wide awake. 

But he wasn’t angry, so there was that.

He got the feeling that Kyle had been going easy on him… but he didn’t call him on it.

Mostly because he lacked the breath to call him on it.

He decided to keep going, though. Each morning that Kyle went for a run, Michael went with. They didn’t chat at all that early; he’d just meet Kyle in the living room, ready to go, and Kyle would tilt his head and they’d be out the door.

Michael definitely did not like running, but he’d started to see it like medicine. He needed to do something, and running in the morning gave him something to do. Something that tired him out and made him feel like he’d accomplished something before most people had even made it out the door.

He hated going, but he had to admit - privately, of course - that he liked how it made him feel.

When his Wednesday appointment came around, he’d only been running three times, but he still bragged about it to his therapist because he finally felt like he’d done something right. She’d told him to find something to do, and he’d found it. And his cast had come off and he’d gone back to work, and he hadn’t had a drink in nearly six weeks - 40 days today, not that Michael was counting.

_He was totally counting._

But then Michael brought up the one thing he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, despite all his progress.

He’d already told her about Alex in previous sessions - he’d been so central to so much of his life that there’d been no way he could really talk about his past - or his present - without mentioning him. But now he told her the latest - that Alex had moved on. That despite the fact that Michael was sure that he’d never love someone the way he loved Alex, Alex had found someone else.

“Have you ever gone out with anyone besides Alex?”

“I mean… yeah. Gone out, gotten drinks with, slept with, yeah. But it’s never been the same. No one’s even come close.”

“So going out with someone doesn’t automatically mean love?”

“I see what you’re doing and I get it, but the thing is… what if it goes that way? What if Alex does find someone better? Someone he can really love without all the… complications?”

She shrugged. “What if he does? Let’s unpack that a bit. What if at some point, Alex finds someone who makes him truly happy? What if he finds someone who is everything he wants?”

Michael frowned. “So I’m being selfish. Of course I want him to find that - to be happy. It just…”

“It’ll suck if it's not with you.”

“Yeah. I guess that makes me an asshole. That I can’t figure out how to be happy for my ex without being upset about the fact that it’s not me.”

“No, that makes you human. It’s perfectly normal to have a lot of different feelings about something like that. You can be happy for him, but sad for yourself at the same time. One doesn’t invalidate the other.”

He let out a shaky sigh, swiping at his cheek. “So what am I supposed to do with that? Just… give up and be miserable?”

“You could. _Or_ , you could work on enriching the other parts of your life and making them the best and most fulfilling that you can. Look, having someone to share your life with is great, but the truth is that another person can’t meet your every need - it’s just too much to ask of one person. If you want to be happy with someone else, you first have to be happy with yourself. I’m not saying it’s easy - it’s definitely not. But when you get to a place where you enjoy your life and you’re happy with yourself and where you’re at, sharing your life with another person will be that much better.”

Michael sat back, heart pounding as he turned the words over in his mind. He could feel the truth of them, but it just seemed like such a big task. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to build a happy life for himself. He wasn’t sure what that’d even look like.

So she helped him start a list of things he wanted. First, he wanted to tell Alex why he’d pushed him away. Not only because of the guilt he carried about what he’d done, but also because he didn’t want Alex to think even for a second that he’d done something wrong. 

The doctor agreed that it was fine for him to clear the air, if he was really sure that he’d be able to do it without it becoming just a subtle attempt to sabotage him moving on with someone else. She’d suggested that he do it in a letter so that he could make sure he stayed focused on exactly what he wanted to say. 

The rest of his list so far were mostly things that required money. He wanted to start paying people back what he owed them, and he wanted to try to give Kyle some rent money. Those, his therapist said, were good goals, but she also wanted him to think of something he wanted to do that didn’t have anything to do with money. 

Arturo immediately came to mind. Helping fix that milkshake machine had felt really good. He didn’t know what else he could do, but he decided that he wanted to help people. 

Unfortunately, “help people” wasn’t a specific enough thing for his list, so part of his week’s homework was spending some more time thinking about it and looking into ways he could be helpful in the community.

  
  
His head was spinning as he left therapy, but in sort of a good way. As he made the drive back into town, the music Kyle had given him playing softly in the background, he realized that the tiny, fragile warmth in his chest felt a little like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell from back in chapter 2 when Forrest was introduced, I like that guy. Malex is endgame here, but Forrest will not be the bad guy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael puts into practice some of the things that were discussed in therapy.

Kyle was working late that night, so after swinging by the Crashdown for dinner, Michael sat down at the kitchen table to get to work. He wanted to write Alex’s letter while his therapy session was still fresh in his mind - and before he lost his nerve.

> _Alex,  
>  _ _I’ve never been great with words, but there are some things I want to say to you, and I want to try to get it right for once._

He sighed. Maybe it was best to just jump in and say what he needed to say.

> _I was an ass to you when I came by to bring back the guitar. I’m sorry for that. Everything was just so much. I felt like I was crashing. I figured that if I was going to self-destruct, I had to make sure that you were out of the blast radius. I know it was selfish of me - to manipulate you into leaving me alone instead of just talking to you about how I was struggling and letting you decide if you wanted to stick around._
> 
> _But the thing is, even though I hate the way I did it, I think you leaving my orbit was probably the right thing to do. Because maybe you would’ve stuck around and tried to help, maybe you would’ve used up every last resource of patience you had trying to pull me out of my downward spiral. But it wouldn’t have worked. I was the only one who could do that. I had to decide that I wanted to try to turn things around; it wasn’t something you could decide for me._
> 
> _So I guess what I’m saying is, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I kicked you out of my life when you’d been nothing but kind to me. You didn’t deserve that._

Michael paused, swiping at his cheeks in annoyance. He needed to get through this. He owed it to Alex to make it clear to him.

> _And none of this - and I’m going to underline this for emphasis, okay? -_ _none of this was ever your fault_ _._ _Nothing that your father or your grandfather ever did to my family was your fault. The way I acted wasn’t your fault. The way I fell apart wasn’t your fault. My mother’s death, my jail time, my drinking… none of that is on you._
> 
> _And in case you’re wondering what the purpose of this letter is - honestly, it’s mostly that. Because I finally decided a while back that I was going to work to get better - to put in the energy to change my trajectory. And as I’m working on myself and learning how to take responsibility for my actions and deal with life in a more healthy way, one of the biggest things weighing on me is the thought that you might somehow think you’re to blame for some of my shit. You’re not. Never have been._

He paused again as his breath hitched. His mind went back to the night Alex had brought the ship piece to him. He’d said that he didn’t want history to repeat, that he didn’t want to be like his father and grandfather - but Alex never had been. He hoped more than anything else, that he could at least convince Alex of that. 

> _By the way, I saw you the other day with Forrest at the Crashdown, so this isn’t me writing some emotional plea to try to break you guys up. I met Forrest at the library a while back - he seems like a good guy. I know you don’t need my permission - or my blessing - to date someone else. But in case there’s any part of you that wonders - I’m happy for you, Alex. You deserve all the happiness in the world, and if that guy gives it to you, then honestly, he’ll be my favorite person._
> 
> _One day, maybe when things aren’t as fresh, I’d love it if we could be friends. You’re the best man I know._
> 
> _\- Michael_

Michael pushed the pen and paper away and dropped his head onto the table and let himself cry. He wanted to be proud of himself - he’d managed to say what he needed to say to Alex without breaking down and begging him for another chance. It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about whether or not he deserved to be given another chance - the fact was that he wasn’t ready. He knew that. And it wouldn’t be fair of him to try to convince Alex otherwise. He could recognize now… he was grieving. He was grieving the fact that he’d lost his chance with Alex - possibly forever. But he’d had enough therapy to recognize the truth, however painful it was: he loved Alex. He always would. And not just in the flippant way he’d told Isobel that day when he’d told her that love was the worst thing to ever happen to him. He loved Alex with the entirety of his heart. And, as he was slowly and painfully learning, that meant that he needed to try to put aside what _he_ wanted and accept what was best for Alex. Right now, Alex was dating someone else, and if Michael really loved him, he had to trust that Alex was doing exactly what he needed to do - what was best for him - and he had to be glad for that at least.

If he was hurt by what Alex wanted then that was a price he’d gladly pay; Alex’s happiness was worth it.

Michael raised his head, wiping at his eyes as he sniffled. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet to be glad about it, but that was _his_ problem, not Alex’s. 

He stood and collected the letter, carefully folding it so it’d fit in an envelope. 

He didn’t sleep well that night, and the morning run with Kyle left him feeling more exhausted than normal, but once they got back he decided that he didn’t want to delay sending the letter and risk chickening out.

Once Kyle got out of the shower and was almost ready to head out the door, Michael grabbed the envelope. 

“Hey, do you think you’ll see Alex any time soon?”

Kyle went still next to the entry table where he’d been digging in the bowl for his keys. “Why?”

“I uh… I wrote him a letter. Therapist approved. It’s not… it’s just some stuff I want him to know; I don’t need an answer or anything.”

“Oh. Yeah… I could get it to him if you want.”

“Thanks.”

  
  


The exhaustion made work feel a little longer than normal, and by the end of the shift, he had one of the headaches he’d come to associate with lack of sleep (and lack of acetone). Which was why when Sanders told him that they’d be closed the following Thursday for Thanksgiving, he stood there staring at him for long enough for Sanders to gruffly ask him what was wrong.

What was _wrong_ was that Thanksgiving was a week away, and it hadn’t even really hit him that it was already November. 

As soon as he got back to the apartment he called Isobel. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, everything good?”

“No. Did you know that it’s Thanksgiving next week? Was anyone even going to tell me that the year was almost over?”

She laughed. “You have a weekly appointment with a therapist - don’t you ever notice the date?”

“Apparently not. It’s just… it’s been a long time since I was even _aware_ of the date, I guess.” Which, now that he thought about it, made perfect sense. He hadn’t exactly been marking the calendar when he’d been drinking all the time. 

“Do you uh… do you know when Max died?”

“September 3rd,” she answered softly.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

He sniffed, determined to pull himself together to finish the conversation. “I’m six weeks sober tomorrow.” _That_ , at least, he’d been counting. 

“That’s great, Michael. We should celebrate.”

“I guess, if you want to. I still have a long way to go.”

“Of course I want to! How about we meet at Max’s place for dinner? I’m pretty much done with all the packing and sorting, and the last of the donations were picked up today, but we can still get takeout and eat there one last time.”

“What’s happening to the house?”

“It’ll be sold, according to his will.”

Michael snorted. “Max actually had a will? Wait, why am I surprised? He was too anal to leave anything to chance.”

  
  
  


That night after dinner, they sat on Max’s porch watching the stars come out. Isobel ducked inside for a second and came back out with a box that she set beside his chair before sitting beside him. “I saved a few of Max’s things for you. You don’t need to go through it now or anything. Just… whenever you feel like it, okay?”

He nodded. It’d been quite a while since he and Max had seen eye-to-eye, but his loss still hurt. Though sometimes Michael had a hard time separating that pain from all the other hurt.

“Hey uh… I never told you what happened - what the Sheriff told me that night when she was notifying me about Max’s death.”

“The night you…”

“Yeah, Iz, you can say it. The night I drank myself unconscious. She told me that she remembered us from when we were small. She’d been working the case - trying to find out who’d dumped us in the desert. She even came by the group home to see how we were doing.”

“Wow...I had no idea she’d been on the force that long.”

“Turns out that she was there when the Evans’ came to see us. She saw… she saw Max writing all over the walls and screaming. She said _I’d_ been the one to take the crayon from him and calm him down before the Evans’ came in.”

“Wait… Max? Max was doing that too? But I thought-”

“According to her, it’d _always_ been Max screaming - not me.”

“But then why-”

Michael shrugged, face tilted up to the stars. “The staff was probably afraid Max would never get adopted if they told the truth. I think they just told everyone it’d been me because the Evans’ walked in and saw you two and… it was their chance, right? Max was a handful. They could get him adopted and out of their hair.”

“Michael that’s - that’s awful.”

“I gotta admit… when I found out I was shocked, and then I was pissed because they basically condemned me to shitty foster care with that lie. But if they hadn’t then it would’ve been me with you at the Evans’, and Max in those shitty foster homes. Can you imagine what that would’ve done to Mr. Sensitive?”

“Michael…”

“No, it’s - I think I’ve finally made peace with it now. Better me than him, you know? Even if I had a time machine, that’s one thing I wouldn’t go back and fix.”

Isobel swiped at her cheeks and laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you, you know?”

“I know. I love you, too. And I think we’re gonna be okay. Eventually.”

It was getting too cold to stay outside long, even in their coats, so they ended the night inside, sitting by Max’s fireplace. Before he left, Isobel made him promise that he’d come by her place next Thursday night for Thanksgiving. 

“You know I don’t celebrate it, right? It’s just a day off for me.”

“I know, but my parents do and I’ll be at their house all afternoon. I need you at my house for dinner so I’ll have an excuse not to stay all night.”

“You could just lie-”

“Shut up, Michael, you’re coming.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.”  
  
  


Kyle was still at work when he got back into town the following Wednesday, so rather than grab dinner to-go after therapy, Michael decided to stay and eat at the Crashdown. He slid into a booth and pulled out the notebook he’d been using to jot down ideas - things he might want, things he could look into.

He’d been brainstorming lately, writing down all kinds of ways he could help people - even if most of them weren’t things that in any way intersected with his interest or skills. He decided he’d rather have something to look at than stare at a blank page every time.

Besides, who’s to say he wouldn’t suddenly develop an interest in painting murals or teaching yoga? He smirked to himself, drawing a line to each of those items and adding “learn to paint” and “learn to yoga” in the margin.

His smirk became a real smile when Arturo slid into the booth across from him, antenna bobbing with the motion. “Michael! I was hoping you’d come by tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss Wednesday dinner! Everything okay in the kitchen? The part I ordered for the shake machine should be here next week.”

“Everything’s fine. I was actually wondering what you were doing tomorrow - any plans for Thanksgiving?”

“Uh…I don’t celebrate it, actually.” Michael’s mind raced, trying to figure out how to put it delicately so he wouldn’t offend the older man. “Ever since I learned the real story of Thanksgiving it just… didn’t seem right to celebrate it.” He shrugged. There was no way he was going to complicate the story by mentioning the fact that he’d never actually had the opportunity to celebrate it as a kid, anyway. Even before he learned it was a shit holiday, none of his foster families had been the kind to cook big turkey dinners.

Arturo didn’t seem offended, though. He smiled. “Yes, _maldito_ colonizers - Liz set me straight on that years ago. But the diner is closed tomorrow and I assume your work is closed too?”

“Yeah, Sanders is closed.”

“Excellent! If you don’t have other plans, I could use some help tomorrow. Normally Liz would come, but she just got a new job and she’s waiting to take time off to come for Christmas.”

Michael found himself agreeing to help even before Arturo even explained exactly what he needed. “Isobel is expecting me for dinner, but I’m free all day before that.”

Of course, he figured that it’d have something to do with mechanics or manual labor, since that’s what he was good at. So when Arturo described his plan, Michael was surprised, to say the least.

“I have no training as a cook, you know that, right?” Apparently every Thanksgiving Arturo closed his diner and spent the morning cooking, then he packaged it all up and took it to people who needed it. It sounded like an amazing idea... but definitely not anything that he’d consider part of his usual skill set.

Arturo waved off his concern, already sliding out of the booth. “I just need another pair of hands, not a five-star chef. You’ll do fine.”

Arturo had wanted Michael there as early as possible, so after his morning run with Kyle, he showered and went straight to the diner to find him already hard at work.

He spent the morning being Arturo’s kitchen aid - chopping what he was asked to chop, stirring things, tossing and mixing, lifting and moving… basically doing whatever he was told. It was relaxing, once he got into it.

After having a quick meal themselves, they were boxing everything up for transport. They dropped off food boxes at a couple of small nursing homes where they were greeted with hugs and big smiles, and then they were back on the road.

“I hope you don’t mind, but my last stop is always the children’s home… you can stay in the car if it’s easier for you.”

Michael was confused until he realized that Arturo meant the Roswell children’s home where they’d first been taken as kids before Max and Isobel were adopted. “It’s fine. I wasn’t there long. I actually don’t even really remember it.”

Arturo reached over to pat his leg as they turned down the street where the home sat. “It’s a better place now than it was then.”

A woman who introduced herself as Natalie let them in through a back entrance and into a kitchen where he and Arturo started to set everything up. Then she went over and slid open a window in front of a counter that looked out into the dining area. “They don’t have to eat anything they don’t want to eat, but they have at least one serving of everything on their plate. Don’t let them try to convince you otherwise.”

Arturo had brought more than enough food, so as they plated it up for the kids who came to the window, they were able to give extra portions upon request, and yes, everyone had to get at least one scoop of green beans, even if they didn’t want to eat them.

Once all the kids had been through the line, Natalie said, “One of these days we’d like to take the kids down to the diner for a change of scenery.”

Before Michael could ask why they couldn’t she added, “Our bus hasn’t been the most reliable lately.”

Michael straightened, noticing out of the corner of his eye the way Arturo seemed to be trying very hard not to glance at him. “I could take a look at it.”

Arturo was quick to jump in, “Michael is a mechanic when he’s not volunteering in my kitchen. He’s very good.”  
  


Suddenly Arturo didn’t need his help in the kitchen anymore, and Natalie brought in another adult to supervise the dining area while she showed Michael to the bus in the back parking lot. 

“Don’t suppose you guys have any tools around here…”

She pointed to the corner of the lot where a tiny shed stood. “We have plenty of tools. We used to have a mechanics class here. The kids liked learning something they could do with their hands - something useful. But our volunteer left town when his work transferred him to Santa Fe.”

Michael hummed noncommittally. He’d take a look at their bus, maybe see if there was anything he could do, but he wasn’t going to offer to teach a class the first time he’d stepped foot in this place in twenty years. He might know cars, but he wasn’t qualified to teach troubled kids - despite having been one of them himself.

The ‘tool shed’ turned out to be more of a tall cabinet than any kind of shed, but it _did_ have a lot of tools. Michael grabbed the basics, and then popped the hood of the bus to see what it looked like while Natalie went back inside.

The engine was clearly suffering from some neglect. It was pretty apparent that no one had bothered doing any sort of maintenance on the thing since their volunteer mechanic had left. Even the oil hadn’t been changed - which was surprising because if he were teaching a damn class on auto mechanics, fluid levels would be one of the first lessons. 

He found an unopened bottle of motor oil and a new filter in the tool cabinet, so he figured he could start with an oil change and go from there. Halfway through his preparations, a lanky teen wandered out and began watching him suspiciously. 

“What’re you doing?”

Michael resisted rolling his eyes with herculean effort. “An oil change, maybe. If this oil is still good. You wouldn’t happen to know how long it’s been sitting out here, would you?” 

“I have no idea.”

“Hmm. Do you guys have disposable cups in your kitchen?”

“I think so.”

He sent the kid back into the building for a cup, partly to get the kid to stop looking at him like he was going to do something terrible to their bus, and partly because he needed a damn cup. The kid was back quickly, handing it over with even more suspicion in his eyes.

“What’s the cup for? You’re not going to drink it, are you?”

Michael shook his head. “No. No, drinking motor oil is never a good idea. Ever. Don’t ever do that.” He opened the bottle and poured a little of it into the cup, examining its color and texture. “Motor oil has a shelf life of about 5 years, but if it’s exposed to extreme temperatures for too long - like sitting out in a tool cabinet all summer - it shortens the shelf life.”

“So you can tell if it’s good just by looking at it?”

“When it gets too hot, motor oil tends to separate. When it’s too cold, it can form clumps. It’s supposed to be clear and smooth-” he swirled the oil in the bottom of the cup, holding it towards the kid to show him, “-like this is.”

The kid looked into the cup doubtfully. “So it’s still good?”

“Seems that way.”

“And that’s all the bus needs? An oil change?”

“Doubt it, but it’s a start.”

The kid, who eventually introduced himself as David, stuck around and watched while Michael changed the oil, then checked the other fluids, the battery terminals, and a few other things. He explained everything he was doing as he did it, just because the kid hadn’t left and it felt weird working with those eyes glued to his every move. At least when he was explaining things he felt a little less judged.

The bus, unsurprisingly, needed a bit more work than he could do in the time it took Arturo to finish feeding the kids, cleaning up, and whatever else he was doing inside to give him more time. When he finally wandered out with Natalie in tow, Michael was elbows-deep in the engine, explaining to David why timing belts had to be changed on a schedule so they didn’t break and damage the engine. This particular timing belt, for instance, looked like it was on its last legs. Definitely past it’s optimal usage.

Michael pulled his hands out of the engine, eased the hood closed, and started wiping his hands on a shop towel. “Time to head out?” he asked, once Arturo was close enough.

“If you’re ready.”

Michael nodded. “Not much more I can do today anyway.” He turned to Natalie. “If it’s alright with you, I can come back and finish this Saturday.”

“Absolutely, thanks.”

Michael nodded. “See ya later, David.”

On the way back to the diner Michael chuckled and turned to Arturo. “So was this whole thing a set up to get me over to fix their bus?”

Arturo scoffed. “Of course not. I needed the help.” Then he paused, his face taking on a mischievous look. “It was a… happy bonus.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part: Michael gets a reply letter from Alex.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things in Michael's life are slowly coming together, and he thinks he's ready for some closure.

After working with Arturo all day, dinner at Isobel’s was relaxing. For Isobel too, he suspected. She didn’t even have to cook because it seemed like her parents had sent her home with enough leftovers for a week.

Though when dinner was over, and Isobel pushed her plate back and gave him a serious look, Michael felt the relaxed atmosphere begin to evaporate.

“Michael…”

He could already tell from the tone that whatever she was going to say next wasn’t good news.

“I need to tell you something that you’re not going to like. But I need to tell you anyway.”

Michael braced himself, heart pounding. Whatever it was, he wanted to be able to take the news calmly. Or failing that, he at least wanted Isobel to understand that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to make him run out to the nearest bar. 

“It’s about Max’s will, and what’s happening to his house.”

He nearly sagged in relief. He hadn’t really been attached to Max’s house, so he didn’t much care what happened to it. He could only guess from Isobel’s expression that she had a lot of feelings about it. “Okay…”

“Max had insurance on the house so that his mortgage would be paid in the event of his death…”

Michael nodded. “Okay… that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, and… it’s a nice house. I put it on the market almost right away to try to find a buyer while we were cleaning it out.”

“So what’s the bad news? Is Wyatt Long the buyer?”

“No, and I didn’t say it was bad news, I said you wouldn’t like it.” She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. “Max wanted the house sold and he wanted the proceeds to go to you. So… as soon as the sale goes through, and you sign the paperwork, you’re getting the money.”

“What? Why? That- that doesn’t make any sense. What about you - his  _ twin _ ? You’re telling me he didn’t leave anything to you? And what about your parents? They’d never stand for it. No way.”

“Michael, Noah and I were really well off; Max knew I didn’t need the money. And he  _ did _ leave me a few things - things that matter to me a lot more than a house. And, my parents don’t know where the money from the house is going because Max’s will stipulated that it not be disclosed to them - I’m sure they assume it’s going to me, though. They’re not going to fight for it or anything.”

She looked at him, “It’s yours, Michael. He wanted  _ you _ to have the money from the house.”

Michael scoffed, crossing his arms. “How old was his will?”

“He updated it a couple years after Noah and I got married, but he’d had you down to get the money from the house from the first draft - back when he bought it.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “That was just after he became a cop…” His eyes started tearing up against his will. Even back then, before Michael had truly gone off the rails, Max had already given up hope that he’d ever amount to anything. He’d decided that he had to leave a safety net for his loser brother. 

“Wow, so… he basically - he gave up on me, huh? Figured I’d never make it so he had to leave me a bunch of money. Damn.” He blinked rapidly, refusing to let tears fall over Max’s lack of faith in him.

Isobel drew back, surprised. “No, it wasn’t like that. Not at all.”

“Yeah, and how would you know, Iz?”

“Because we talked about it! He always - Michael, he always wanted to give you something. For as long as I can remember. He never thought it was fair that we’d been adopted and you hadn’t. He’d always wanted to do something to make it right.”

Michael shook his head. “Money can’t make it right, Iz! Money doesn’t change my childhood. Money doesn’t give me a family, doesn’t let me grow up with you -  _ it doesn’t fix anything! _ ” He stood up from the table and paced across the room, head spinning. He didn’t know what to think anymore. 

“I know, but it’s all he could do! Can’t you see? He couldn’t do anything to help you. He couldn’t get you out of foster care, he couldn’t stop the-”

He deflated at the sound of Isobel’s voice. It wasn’t  _ her _ fault their brother had been a dumbass. “I get it, Iz. I get it. I just… I don’t know.” The thought of having so much money he hadn’t earned… it felt like pity money, no matter how he looked at it. Well, pity, or guilt money, maybe. He didn’t need Max’s emo guilt money.

Isobel’s voice quietly broke through his thoughts. “You know… it was in his will, Michael. It’s not like he expected to die; he wasn’t sick. I don’t think he ever thought…” Isobel let out a shaky breath and restarted, “I don’t think he thought that he’d have to leave us. The will was a just-in-case thing that everyone in the department did, you know? He never really thought-” 

He returned to the table and reached down to pull Isobel up and into a hug, unable to withstand the raw pain in her voice. 

“He would’ve preferred to stay,” she muttered, head on his shoulder.

“To boss us around,” he agreed, causing her to snort.

“Yeah.”

  
  
By the time he made it back to the apartment that night, he was completely exhausted - physically and emotionally. Kyle wasn’t home from work yet, so he went straight back to his room and shut the door, peeling out of his clothes as he made his way towards his bed. 

He dropped everything on the floor, except for the envelope he’d stuffed in his coat pocket. That, he took with him to bed, running a finger over his name on the front while he debated whether or not he wanted to open it when he was already so tired.

Right before he’d left, Isobel had handed it to him, telling him that Alex had given it to her the day before. They’d had lunch together. Or at least they’d both been part of a group of people who’d met up for lunch at the Crashdown the day before Thanksgiving. 

Apparently Isobel and Alex were running in the same circles now - Michael wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

And actually, he wasn’t sure that he had any right to feel  _ anything _ about it. He knew he had no right to ask to be involved in anything people were doing these days; he was the one who’d abandoned them to drink himself stupid. He just hoped that if anything serious ever came up, they’d trust him enough to loop him in.

But as for the letter… he knew he’d never sleep if he didn’t see what it said, so he bit his lip and tore open the envelope, pulling out a single sheet of paper.

> _ Michael, _
> 
> _ Thanks for reaching out. Let’s face it, I’ve never really been great with words either. It’s something I’m working on.  _
> 
> _ You’re right - you were an ass and I didn’t deserve it. But I think I get why you did it. I didn’t at first. I was angry, and I was hurt, but then I realized that neither of us was ready to be real with the other - at least not in a way that wasn’t going to be destructive. I’m glad you’re taking some time to heal, though. You deserve that. You deserve to be whole and happy. We both do. Maybe that’s something we could’ve figured out together, or maybe not. Maybe we would’ve just kept hurting each other. _
> 
> _ What matters is that you’re doing the work now. I’m proud of you - do I even have the right to say that? Well, I will anyway because it’s true. And I want you to know - I really hope you know - that your mom, Max… none of that was your fault, either. Hey, I’m working on letting myself off the hook for a lot of things, so it’s only fair that you do too.  _
> 
> _ And when you’re ready, I’d love to be friends.  _
> 
> _ \- Alex _

Michael came to the end of the note and sighed before reading it twice more. He hadn’t expected a reply, but he was glad to have received one. It hurt to see Alex acknowledge his pain and agree that Michael had been an ass, but at the same time, part of him was glad that Alex felt like he could tell him that.

The letter sounded… okay. Alex sounded okay. He hadn’t actually said that he was happy, and he hadn’t mentioned Forrest at all, but the tone of the letter felt… light. It felt good. Like maybe Alex was in a good place.

God, he hoped Alex was in a good place. If anyone deserved it, it was him.

The sound of Kyle coming through the apartment door shook him out of his thoughts and reminded him of the other thing he’d wanted to do before bed. If he was about to get money, he had some research to do.

  
  
  
Michael went back to the children’s home Saturday. A woman named Sandra met him at the door, told him that she’d been expecting him, and handed him the keys to the bus and tool cabinet. 

The lanky kid returned to the parking lot to watch him and brought 3 others with him, two of whom spent the entire time peppering him with questions. 

Michael could tell from the questions that either these kids hadn’t been around when the previous mechanic had been teaching his class, or they hadn’t been paying any attention. In either case, most of the questions were more amusing than annoying, and they gave Michael something else to occupy his mind while he replaced a couple of simple parts to get the bus running.

Once he was finished, he went inside to return the keys, and found himself being ushered into a little office he hadn’t noticed before that sat just to one side of the kitchen. 

“The bus is fixed,” he announced, laying the keys on the desk in front of Sandra.

“So what did you think?” she asked, peering at him from over the top of her reading glasses.

He shrugged. “It’s beaten up, but the engine is decent. If it gets regular maintenance, it should last a few years yet.”

She waved a hand in a clear dismissal. “That’s great, but I’m asking about the kids. What do you think? Are you willing to keep coming back to answer all their car questions?”

His mouth fell open. “I uh… I don’t have the best reputation in town. I’m probably not who you’d want teaching the kids.”

“Look, Michael, let me be clear: as soon as Arturo mentioned your name, I ran it by the sheriff. I know about your history with bar brawls and drunk tanks. I also know that Sheriff Valenti thinks very highly of you, and said that you’ve been making some changes in your life and haven’t seen the inside of a bar or jail cell in a while. Is that accurate? Have you been making changes?”

“Well yeah, but I… I just don’t know if a few weeks sobriety qualifies me to teach anybody anything.”

“Of course not. Here’s what I think qualifies you: you’re a product of this system, with all the baggage that no-doubt entails. That makes you  _ uniquely _ qualified to understand some of what these kids have been through. You’ve also made some bad choices, but you’ve decided to take ownership of your life and make whatever changes necessary to get back on track - that’s the kind of example these kids need. Plus, you actually know how to fix cars, and a shop class is the biggest extra-curricular request we get.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “My wife and I are trying to make this a better place than what it’s been. We’re not afraid to do what makes sense, even if it’s not what’s traditional. Tradition hasn’t helped these kids so far.”

“Your.. wife?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “My wife Natalie… she said she met you Thanksgiving. Is that a problem?”

“No, I’m just surprised, I guess. In a good way. I uh… there wasn’t anybody when I was a kid. Anybody who wasn’t…”

“Homophobic and fucked up to boot? Yeah, like I said, this place is under new management. Being here isn’t ideal for any of these kids, but we’re doing our best to make it less horrible. And, to give them some good examples: loving adult relationships and - if you agree - a redemption story lived out in front of them. These kids need to know that mistakes don’t have to be the end for them.”

By the time Micheal left the group home, he’d agreed to come back each Saturday for three months, and then reevaluate after that. He’d also exchanged numbers with Sandra partly so she could contact him if something went wrong with the bus during the week, and partly, she admitted, so she could make sure he didn’t forget to come next Saturday.

Michael wrote to Alex again when he got home.

> _ Alex,  _
> 
> _ You’ll never guess where I was today - the same Roswell group home where I spent a little time as a kid before I got shipped off to Santa Fe. Honestly, I barely even remember those early days after we arrived - just feelings and vague impressions. I definitely didn’t remember the home. But I was there the other day helping Arturo feed the kids, and it turned out that their bus was broken. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I’d agreed to come back Saturdays and teach a little shop class. Apparently there are several kids who are interested in learning how to fix cars. _
> 
> _ All that to say - it makes me nervous, but it’s also kinda nice. It’s nice to be useful. To feel like I can contribute somehow. _
> 
> _ Oh, and get this - the home’s being run by a lesbian couple! What I would’ve given to see queer relationships normalized when I was young. Actually, I wouldn’t have given anything because it wasn’t even something I knew I needed at the time. For the longest time I thought it was wrong to like guys. I kinda swept that part of me under the rug. I figured that maybe if I just ignored it - dated only girls - it’d go away.  _
> 
> _ I can’t help but think about how it was in high school, back when Kyle used to be a shithead. (Don’t worry, he already apologized to me and we’re cool now.) But back when he was a shithead, I was kind of a shithead too, wasn’t I? Because I never spoke up. All those times he bullied you about liking guys - I could’ve said something. I could’ve told him that I liked guys, too. Maybe he would’ve thought twice about being a dick if there’d been two of us standing up to him. _
> 
> _ But instead, I stayed quiet and I left you to deal with it alone. Fuck, I’m so sorry for that. I’ve been so fixated on what an asshole Kyle was in school that I completely missed the fact that I was an asshole too.  _
> 
> _ I’m done with that. I’m done keeping quiet while people around me are hurt. I’m done hiding.  _
> 
> _ It’s kinda weird - it feels like I’m coming out, but I’d already come out, hadn’t I? I’m not so sure anymore. I spent so long hiding so many things that it’s taking me a while to sort it all out.  _
> 
> _ Anyway, I hope you’re doing good. (Sorry, I don’t know how else to end this - but I really do hope you’re doing well.) _
> 
> _ \- Michael _

  
  
He asked Kyle to take the letter to Alex the next morning, and before he knew it, nearly two weeks had gone by without a reply. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if something in his last letter had upset Alex, but the rest of him figured that Alex was probably just busy living his life. He didn’t owe him a reply - it wasn’t as if they’d agreed to be pen pals or anything. 

It still hurt - not being a regular part of Alex’s life. Michael was beginning to come to terms with the fact that it probably always would. But in the past couple weeks he’d been working with his therapist, learning to let go of the past - both the good, and the bad. It didn’t mean forgetting, and it didn’t mean that he couldn’t learn from it; it just meant that he was trying not to let the past become bigger than the present. 

He could recognize now how much of a problem that’d been for him - for a long time. Each new pain he experienced would immediately bring to mind every past pain. For years and years he’d been so busy carrying all the weight of the past that he’d never really been able to deal with things as they happened. The end result had been just more weight added to the pile - more pain, more regret… 

But now he’d slowly been confronting his past and dealing with it. And he’d been learning to separate past from present and deal with current problems in a healthier way.

He’d even started going out a little. Not to the Wild Pony - he definitely wasn’t ready for that. And if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever really have a reason to go back there. What business did a recovering alcoholic have at a bar, anyway?

So instead of returning to his previous habits, he’d been finding new ways to interact with the world. He’d gone out to dinner with Isobel, he’d had lunch with Arturo, he’d even met Sheriff Valenti for breakfast once. 

And so far his Saturdays teaching at the children’s home were going pretty well. All in all, if anyone asked him - and now he actually had a few people in his life who did - he’d have to say that he was doing all right. 

Which is why he’d been talking to his therapist about closure. And why he’d decided that he wanted to go back to Caulfield just once.

He knew it’d be a pile of rubble - that’s if the government hadn’t already swept in and buried the whole thing - but something deep inside him wanted to go back to the last place on Earth that his mother had been, the place she’d spent decades. He doubted he’d feel anything there; it wasn’t as if he expected to feel a lingering presence or anything. But something in him had to be sure. He had to see the place she’d been. The day he’d lost her everything had happened so fast that he hadn’t even said goodbye. He wanted to say goodbye now.

He’d also just come into some serious money, and he had to break the news to Kyle that he was about to start receiving rent. He honestly wasn’t sure which thing Kyle would have more trouble with.

But just in case he needed to soften the blow, he’d made some preparations. After making sure that Kyle would be at the apartment for dinner, and telling him he needed to talk, he’d ordered from Kyle’s favorite Chinese restaurant. He wasn’t sure how effective it’d be, but that was what people always did, right? 

Kyle must’ve smelled the food as soon as he came in, because Michael heard him comment from the front door, “Chinese? Is that my favorite place?”

He poked his head into the kitchen, a crease in his brow. “Is someone hurt? Did you lose a bet? Did  _ I _ lose a bet? What’s going on?”

Michael chuckled. “Relax, I just want to run a couple things by you. It’s nothing bad.”

From the look on Kyle’s face, he wasn’t convinced, but he went to go change so they could eat. Then over fried rice and dumplings, Michael broke his first bit of news.

“Max left me the stupid money from the sale of his house, so I want you to know that I’m going to be paying rent now. You can either give me your banking info, and I’ll wire it, or I’ll write you a check or something - but it’s happening. And I’m also paying you back the money for my fine when you got me out of jail.”

“Uh… okay. I can give you my banking info, I guess. But you don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t have to; I want to. This is something I need to do for me.”

“Okay, that’s fair. How much are you thinking?”

Michael slid a paper across the table. It was a printout of local listings and he’d circled one of the rents on a nearby apartment.

“That’s too much.”

“No, it’s not. I looked at local equivalent apartments - that’s how much rooms are going for. The listing circled is for a room in that 2-bedroom apartment. I’m paying you fair market value, Kyle, whether you like it or not.”

Kyle sighed. “Fine. But only if you have to for  _ you _ . Because I don’t need it.”

“It’s definitely for me.”

Michael stood, and started clearing the table. When he was facing the sink, rinsing out his cup he casually said, “One more thing, now that that’s settled.”

Kyle muttered what sounded like “Here we go.”

He turned, leaning back against the counter. “Another thing I need to do for me - I’m going back to Caulfield.”

“What.” Kyle’s voice was flat and completely devoid of any sort of question.

“It’s about getting closure. I just want to go back to the site - I don’t plan to dig through the rubble or anything. I just want to say goodbye.” He held up his hand as Kyle started to answer. “I’m not expecting anything from you. I’m just letting you know because since I’m at the children’s home Saturdays, I’ll probably have to take a day off work or something and you won’t see me. Just letting you know as a courtesy so you don’t wonder where I am.”

“Michael… you can’t go alone. You can’t do that alone.”

“I’ll be fine, Kyle.”

“No, it’s- Michael…”

“Kyle. Look, I know it’ll be emotional - it’s okay. Sometimes my therapy appointments get emotional, too. I’ve mastered the art of crying it out before I try to drive. I can do this.”

“Wait. Just- just give me a few days before you do anything, okay? Caulfield was a military site, so let me run this by Alex to make sure it’s safe. Please.”

As much as Michael didn’t want to bother Alex with his own shit, Kyle probably had a point. If, by some small chance, the military had decided to build another facility in the same spot, he should probably find that out before pulling up in his truck. “Fine. I’ll wait until you hear back from him.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael goes to Caulfield.

Kyle was working most of the weekend, but he left a note for Michael on the fridge with the update: “Alex is looking into it - sit tight.” 

Which was fine. Maybe Old Michael would’ve been frustrated by the waiting, but New Michael was more concerned with making sure he wasn’t going to be a problem for anyone. Ever since Kyle had reminded him that Caulfield had been a military site, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the fact that if he went back there and ran into any sort of trouble it’d be a problem for more than just him. Even though he honestly didn’t think he would, he wasn’t willing to risk Isobel’s safety, or Alex’s job, or even the disappointment of the kids at the group home if he didn’t show up because he got tangled up in some kind of government mess and had to go on the run.

Sunday, Michael headed to Isobel’s because now that they weren’t working on Max’s house every day, they’d decided to at least get together Sunday afternoons for lunch.

Which was another reason why he knew he’d have to take a day off work - he couldn’t go to Caulfield on a Sunday because then he’d have to explain to Isobel why he wasn’t going to have lunch with her. And even though he felt like going to Caulfield was something he needed to do and he wasn’t ashamed of it, he didn’t want Isobel involved. He was sure that when she found out after the fact that he’d gone alone to mourn his dead mother she was gonna be pissed, but that was better than her coming along with him to see the rubble of the building where their people had been tortured for 70 years. If he could spare her those nightmares, he would.

And while he was thinking about nightmares, he opened the door to Isobel’s house to find it engulfed in what looked like a holiday tornado. Several boxes of Christmas decorations laid open and their contents were being lifted out and set in various piles by unseen hands.

Isobel stood in the center like a conductor… conducting tasteful Christmas decorations instead of music.

“If I’d known that this was the plan for the afternoon, I would’ve made some excuse not to come,” he called into the vortex of green and gold.

The last few items settled and she answered, “Don’t start with me. I can’t believe how late I am at getting all these decorations up. It’s shameful. I should’ve had this done right after Thanksgiving!”

“It’s only December 15th, Iz. It’s not even Christmas yet - relax.”

She spared him a brief glare before pointing to a box sitting near the Christmas tree. “Set the train up under the tree.”

Michael sat down in front of the already-decorated tree and opened the box to find not only a train and tracks, but an entire damn village with little fake trees and tiny people. “You want all of this under the tree?”

“Yes.” Isobel had started to wind a garland around the banister on the staircase.

He watched for a minute, and then started unpacking the box, setting aside all the extras to focus on the train. He opened the compartment on the underbelly of the train engine and found it empty. Luckily, Isobel had a pile of new batteries on a nearby table, so he just floated a pair over to him to pop into the train.

And when the damn thing still had no power, he popped the batteries back out and opened the train itself, examining the insides.

“Your control is getting really good,” he called, glancing up to see that Isobel had started using her TK as the garland moved up the staircase, winding it around the banister with her mind instead of her hands.

“I know! It’s still tiring, but I can get a bit more done now before I have to stop and rest.” Her smile turned into a frown. “Why did you take that apart?”

He glanced down at the train parts than he now had in front of him on the floor. “There’s a short somewhere. Probably just a loose wire. Don’t worry; I’ll find it.”

She cast one last suspicious look at the train set before tucking the last bit of garland under itself, then moved over to a pile of wreaths to start fluffing them out so they didn’t look like they’d been crammed in a plastic tub for the past 11 months. “You’re coming over for Christmas.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to look up now that he was immersed in the belly of the train. “That didn’t sound like a question.”

“Because it wasn’t a question. You’re coming.”

He nodded, eyes narrowed in concentration at the little clump of wiring he’d just removed from the train’s engine. “All right then.”

He found where one of the wires had come off it’s post, and worked on reconnecting it carefully. His fingers were too big to reach in so he guided the wire with his TK and made it wrap securely around its post again, careful to make it secure enough that the other wires wouldn’t knock it loose again once he stuffed them back inside and replaced the casing.

When he finally finished, he replaced the batteries and turned the little train on to see that it once again had loco motion and sound… and then he realized that Isobel had been quiet for way too long. He turned to find her watching him with a  _ look  _ on her face.

“What is it?” he asked, dreading the answer. That was the look that said she was keeping something from him.

“Just… you won’t be the only one over for Christmas.”

“Okay,” he answered slowly. “Who else are you inviting?”

“Everybody? The Ortechos, The Valenti’s, The Manes - well, Alex and his brother Greg.”

“What, are you hosting a gala or something? Are your parents coming too?” He wasn’t sure why the news came as such a shock to him. Isobel loved big events. He supposed he’d just figured that with Noah gone she’d want to do something small this year. Though, now that he thought about it, maybe what happened with Noah was all the more reason to do something big. Maybe Isobel wanted to prove to herself that her holiday happiness didn’t revolve around a brain-invading psychopath.

“No, it’s just an evening thing on the 25th. I’ll be at my parent’s house in the morning - I think the Valenti’s and most of the others are also doing separate things Christmas Eve or Christmas morning - this is just going to be a casual get together with friends in the evening.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Just okay? That’s it?”

He shrugged. “What else is there? You’re having a thing here on Christmas - I’ll be here.”

Suddenly her voice took on a calculating tone. “What are you doing New Years Eve?”

“Nope.”

“What? You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet.”

“Whatever you’re doing at the Crashcon, I can’t help. I already promised Arturo I’d help him in his churro booth.” The Crashcon carnival rides and attractions would go up practically overnight right at the end of December, but he was sure Isobel would be working on other details before then. In fact, he was a little surprised she hadn’t asked him for help with any of it yet. Not that it mattered; Arturo had asked for his help weeks ago when he’d gone back to the diner to put the new replacement part into the milkshake machine. 

Isobel pretended to pout, but he knew her well enough to know she was pleased. He wasn’t a decorator or a party-planner. Whatever she’d been going to ask of him, it’d just been to give him something to do, not because she really needed his help. The fact that he’d already agreed to help Arturo only meant that she wouldn’t have to worry about him.

  
  
  


He was in his room reading when he heard Kyle come through the front door, followed by a knock on his bedroom door. He looked at the clock and realized that it was already 9pm. “Come in.”

Kyle poked his head into the room, still wearing his hospital clothes. He looked tired, and his eyes were wary. “Do you think you could get Tuesday off work?”

“This Tuesday? Yeah, I just need to let Sanders know. He’ll let me make up hours the rest of the week.”

Kyle nodded, and seemed to hesitate. “Alex thinks it’ll be fine…”

Michael nodded, raising his eyebrows to let Kyle know that he heard the ‘but’ hanging in the air and was waiting to hear the rest of whatever it was that he had to say.

“...but we’re coming with you. Just in case.”

“We?”

“Alex and I. And before you protest, we’re just driving out there with you. As long as the site is safe, you can do whatever you need to do once we get there.”

“Is there any reason to think the site isn’t safe?”

“Not necessarily. But the place wasn’t exactly ‘official’ to begin with, so we can’t absolutely guarantee that there isn’t something covert going on there now.”

Michael agreed without further argument because he knew this wasn’t a fight he had any hope of winning. It didn’t feel right, Kyle and Alex both taking time off work to drive out to Caulfield with him just because he wanted to say goodbye to his mother. Though it explained why Kyle had been so busy at work all weekend - he must’ve traded a day with someone so he could take Tuesday off.

He knew his therapist would tell him that it was okay to accept people’s offers to help, and that he didn’t have to feel guilty when other people made sacrifices for him of their own free will. 

But he hadn’t figured out how to stop feeling the feeling yet.

He knew that Kyle and Alex wouldn’t be coming with him if they didn’t want to. They could’ve let him go on his own, or they could’ve just told him to wait until they could be more sure that the site was abandoned. Instead, they’d chosen to rearrange their schedules so they could come with him and allow him to get the closure he was looking for. 

They’d chosen to do that for him because they wanted to. If anything, he should feel grateful, not guilty. He deserved a family. And he deserved to say goodbye. 

Positive self-talk could only do so much, but he was trying, damn it.

An unintended benefit of going Tuesday was that if it went well, it’d be another positive thing he could share the next day at his therapy appointment. And if it  _ didn’t _ go well it was also his last appointment before Christmas so at least he’d be able to talk about it a little before the holidays.

  
  
  


Tuesday dawned gray and cold, the feel of frost hanging in the air. It didn’t tend to snow a whole lot in Roswell, and when they did get snowstorms, they tended to come after the first of the year, but that didn’t stop it from getting cold as hell some days. They’d planned to leave around the time he and Kyle usually got up to run, but Michael was awake even before that, stomach jangling with nerves.

Once Alex arrived, they went out to join him in his vehicle. He slid into the backseat, leaving Kyle to hop into the front with Alex. His traitorous brain immediately noted how good Alex looked, and how his particular scent lingered in the air inside the car. When Alex turned back to greet him with a “good morning”, Michael barely managed to return the greeting, heart pounding at his sudden proximity after so long.

Kyle settled the coffees he’d brought for himself and Alex into the cup holders at the front - Michael had declined Kyle’s offer because the last thing his nerves needed was caffeine. 

Alex kept his body angled towards him in the back. “How’re you doing?” His voice held a sincerity and softness that Michael wasn’t sure he deserved. They’d been pretty open with each other in their letters - probably more open than they’d ever managed to be face-to-face, but Alex had never responded to his last letter. Logic told him that if Alex didn’t  _ seem _ upset, and had offered to take him to Caulfield, then he probably  _ wasn’t _ upset with him. 

“Good,” he answered quickly, before his emotions could drown out his logic. “A little nervous,” he added. “Thank you for doing this.” He leaned forward and nudged Kyle in the shoulder. “Both of you.”

“Anytime,” Kyle answered immediately.

“Thanks for letting us do this,” was Alex’s response before he turned back around and got them started down the road.

Michael spent the trip lost in thought, barely aware of the soft music they’d turned on in the front. If Kyle and Alex had any sort of conversation, it didn’t register with him at all. 

Their arrival at the site was anti-climatic, just as Michael had imagined it would be. There were no other vehicles in sight, no new buildings, no personnel anywhere. The rubble of what was once the Caulfield facility lay pretty much as Michael remembered it, now covered in a thin layer of frost - a desolate monument to the destruction of his people against a steel gray sky.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” He climbed out of the car and started forward, reaching down to hastily button up his heavy coat against the chill air. Meanwhile, he opened his mind as best he could, unable to keep himself from at least checking to see if he felt anything.

He didn’t. The presence he’d felt the first time he’d arrived at Caulfield was gone. It was exactly as he’d expected, but his throat still tightened in disappointment. He’d seen the people inside their cells, old and frail, drowning in sorrow and helpless anger. He tried to imagine what they might’ve been like before - young and strong, and full of hope for a new beginning? Or maybe just curious - scientists on a mission to discover new life like some kind of sci-fi adventure story. 

He supposed he’d never know now. So many people - _his_ people - had died here and he didn’t even know their names. He didn’t know what interests they’d had or why they’d left their home, or what hopes they’d had for the future.

He walked over a section of fallen chain link fence, and stepped around several large blocks of concrete. The explosion had destroyed what, from Michael’s recollection, had been at least four floors, reducing them to a pile of concrete and twisted rebar with the occasional low wall still standing along the outside. 

He found a large flat slab near the outskirts of the destruction and sat on it, not even feeling the cold. The memory of his mother’s glowing hands had him reaching down to lay his palms flat against a chunk of concrete. He closed his eyes in concentration and did his best to replicate it, reaching out in his mind, seeking a connection.

There was nothing but emptiness. 

A snort at his own stupidity turned into a sob and he brought his hands up to press against his eyes. His mother had suffered here for 70 years. There was no justice in that. She’d worn rags and slept on a slab, and through the glass of her cell door she’d only been able to see the suffering of her people in the cells across from hers, or the apathetic faces of whatever soldiers and scientists had come to poke and prod her like a fucking lab rat.

In the vision she’d shown him she’d had beautiful blonde hair. Had they shaved her head? Had their drugs made it all fall out? Had she mourned its loss along with the loss of her youth and freedom? 

His whole body shuddered and he curled forward, drawing his knees to his chest. There was no way to make this right, no way to fix this. His mother and the rest of his people were dead, and they hadn’t had a happy ending.

And while he knew that he hadn’t been the one to capture them, and he hadn’t been the one to wire the whole fucking place with explosives, he’d been the one to trigger the countdown. It’d been accidental, but he’d still done it. He’d killed them.

_ I’m sorry, mom. I fucked up. I wish you could’ve seen more of the world outside of this hellhole. I wish I could’ve gotten you out. I wish we’d had more time. I wish I could at least tell you that I’m trying not to be a waste of space. I’m trying so hard to be a good man, to be someone you’d be proud of.  _

He choked on another sob, mind racing through all the ways he’d failed. How his life would’ve been different if he’d had his mom with him. On and on, his mind reeled with one painful thought after the next, stealing his breath and making his heart pound.

Wave after wave of despair washed over him and he let himself feel all of it. 

He jumped when a warm weight settled on his back, but he immediately recognized that it was a hand, moving up and down his back accompanied by a soft voice he couldn’t hear well enough over his hitching breath to know who it belonged to.

He couldn’t hear the voice, but he knew the touch. He’d know that touch anywhere.

The thought that Alex had come out to find him, traversing the uneven terrain just to comfort him brought a fresh wave of tears. 

Warmth settled against his side as Alex sat down beside him, and an arm came around his shoulders, holding him tight against the warmth. And despite himself, he leaned into it, turning his face gratefully into Alex’s shoulder as he sobbed. It probably wasn’t wise to allow himself this closeness, even if it was freely offered, but he was beyond wisdom at the moment. 

He stayed pressed to Alex’s side, breath still hitching even after he ran out of tears. He didn’t know how long it’d been, but he felt wrung out. Empty. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say. Finally he settled on, “I miss her, and I d-didn’t even know her.”

“You have her eyes.”

He used the end of his sleeve to wipe at his cheeks, and then leaned back slightly to peer at Alex. “Really?”

Alex’s face was open, his expression gentle. “Yeah. Exact same color - like warm honey. I think you have her smile, too.”

That brought him up short. “Her smile? When did you see her smile?”

“After you spoke to her and she told you to run. I looked back as we left and she smiled at me. I think she was glad that you listened - that you were getting out.”

“She told me she loved me.”

“Yeah, she definitely loved you. I think she was happy she got to see you in the end. And glad you didn’t try to be stubborn.”

“You think she knew I was stubborn?” he asked, a fragile sort of hope sparking to life in his chest that his mother might’ve known something personal about him.

“Absolutely. You were with her until you were like seven, right? ‘Stubborn’ is one of your defining traits. And I mean that in the best way.”

He wiped his eyes again, breath still hitching. “Not so sure that’s a good thing.”

Alex briefly tightened the arm around his shoulders. “It is. It’s what drives you to protect people even at your own expense, and it’s what gives you the strength to hang on to who you really are in here,” he brought his other hand up to pat Michael’s chest, “even when it’s hard.”

Michael closed his eyes and let Alex’s words soothe the aching emptiness in his heart. He’d never deserve this man, not even if he stayed sober the rest of his life and became a pillar of society. 

He’d promised in his last letter that he was done hiding how he felt, but he’d meant that he wouldn’t hide if the hiding was causing people pain. In this case, with Alex dating Forrest, he felt like telling Alex how much he loved him, how much he’d  _ always  _ love him, would be selfish on his part. He’d had his chance, and he’d fucked it up.

So instead he cleared his throat. “Thanks uh… thanks for saying that.” 

Then he stood and offered a hand up to Alex, conscious of the fact that he’d been sitting on a cold piece of cement with him for however long it’d been. “Let’s get out of here.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate it when an author quits a story and leaves you hanging? Sorry 'bout that, but Season 2 kinda just ruined Roswell for me. That said, I didn't want to leave anyone who may still be around hanging, so the last chapter is what had already been written, plus a very rough synopsis of what was going to happen the rest of the story. In case you're wondering how it all turns out. The synopsis part is very rough and stream-of-consciousness-ish, but it'll at least give you an idea of where the story was going.

Michael slept the whole way back, his sleepless night and the emotions of the day finally catching up with him. He finally woke as they pulled to a stop outside the apartment, and he glanced up to see Kyle in the driver’s seat. 

He climbed out as Kyle came around the passenger’s side, asking Alex if he’d like to come in for something to eat before he left.

He couldn’t hear all of Alex’s reply, but it was clearly a no. Michael supposed he’d probably tried to keep his voice quiet on purpose so he wouldn’t have to hear about whatever plans he no doubt had with his boyfriend that night. Or maybe Michael’s brain was just too muddled to hear it. Either way, Michael muttered his goodbyes in their general direction and started digging in his pockets for his key. Before he’d managed to make it more than a step, though, Alex’s hand was squeezing his shoulder, to get his attention.

“Sorry this took so long.” Alex handed him a folded piece of paper, and then drew him in for a brief friendly hug. “Thanks again for letting us be there for you today.”

Michael nodded because his throat had decided to close up as his words deserted him. 

He unfolded the paper as soon as he got to his room.

> _ Michael, _
> 
> _ Kyle’s driving, and you’re asleep in the back, so I figured now would be a good time to answer your last letter. Sorry it took so long - there was a lot I wanted to say, but I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it. I guess that’s always been my thing - I tend to have so much I want to say, but I don’t say any of it while I’m busy overthinking it and trying to figure out how to express myself. _
> 
> _ First, in response to what you said in your letter, there’s no need for you to apologize for high school. Not to me, and not to anyone else. Growing up the way you did, the way we both did, it’s understandable that you wouldn’t feel safe coming out in high school. There’s no shame at all in that. If it helps, just think of those kids you’ve been teaching at the children’s home. What would you tell them if one of them said they weren’t ready to come out? My guess is that you’d understand, and you wouldn’t blame them. Just try to remember that the younger you deserves the same understanding. _

**Now onto the rough basics of what was going to happen:**

Michael gets invited to a lot of different homes for Christmas morning, but he goes to the children's home where the kids present him with an ugly Christmas sweater (which Michael proudly wears the rest of the day). Christmas evening is spent at Isobel's place with a variety of other people who've gathered there. Everyone is polite, but Michael keeps his distance because it feels awkward. He can't help but notice that Alex comes without Forrest, but he doesn't ask why and nobody says, so he just leaves it alone. Alex wants to talk to him but they get interrupted and never get the chance.

(NEW YEAR'S EVE) 

At crashcon at the fair - Michael is volunteering to help in Arturo's churro booth. Jesse has been released a while and is up to no good - Alex has been keeping tabs on him - having him under surveillance or whatever. 

So Alex is there and so is Greg, and they’re both keeping an eye on Jesse. As far as they know Flint is out of town, but they’re keeping an eye out because it’d make sense that Jesse would have his help. 

Michael has to take out the trash from the booth, and he grabs the bags and heads toward the trash bin to throw it out. When he’s doing that, Jesse wacks him over the head with a gun and jabs a needle in his arm that takes away his powers. He’s dazed and hurt and Jesse starts dragging him towards the parking lot.

Meanwhile, Flint has snuck up on Alex in the crowded fair and jammed a gun in his side, in order to keep him from interfering. Alex decides to go along with it because a gun at this close range could do a lot of damage to him even if he missed anything vital - or it could hit a bystander. Plus, it doesn’t seem like he knows that Greg is there so Alex figures he’ll go along with it for now and wait for Greg to notice that he’s not responding and come find him.

Flint starts guiding Alex towards the parking lot where Jesse and Michael are on Jesse's instructions. Flint doesn’t know why Jesse wants Alex there, but he wasn’t inclined to ask and his dad ran everything on a need-to-know basis. Alex gets upset when he gets closer and sees that a dazed Michael is being led to a deserted section of the parking area by Jesse. He moves quickly, disarming Flint and knocking him down. Then he points the gun and Flint and tells Jesse to let Michael go. Jesse says “you won’t shoot your brother” and Alex says you’re right and then aims the gun at Jesse, still keeping Flint in his sights as well. Jesse aims his gun at Michael and tells him to stand down. Alex says he thinks Jesse needs Michael alive so he knows he won’t kill him. Jesse says he doesn’t have to shoot to kill. 

Suddenly Greg appears, running over to them. He does not have a gun. He stands between Jesse and Michael and says the same thing he did in the show - that he knows what he means to Alex. Alex scuffles with Jesse and the gun he got from Flint gets dropped to the side, and Jesse hits Alex in the face with his gun. (Alex will later admit that he wasn’t fighting full force because even after everything, he didn’t want to hurt his father.) Jesse kicks Alex's prosthetic hard, knocking it askew so he can’t get up right away, then starts to rise - and Jesse gets shot by Greg. 

As Jesse falls, flint starts screaming “no no” and runs over, falls to the floor beside Jesse, and frantically starts digging through Jesse's pockets looking for his cell phone. Meanwhile, Isobel appears, summoned by Michael's distress (he’s having a panic attack at this point because his vision is a little blurry and he doesn’t know if Alex has been shot) and Isobel is trying to calm him down. Flint yells at them and tells them that Jesse had his daughter and he doesn't know where and if he doesn’t call in they’ll kill her. 

Jesse is on the ground fading fast, so Isobel yells to Greg to come help with Michael and she goes over to get into Jesse's mind before he dies. She sees the room where the girl is being kept and when she describes it, they know where she is. Isobel puts Michael to sleep so he won’t panic anymore and calls Kyle to come get him and take him home. Greg goes with flint to go get his kid, and Isobel stays with Alex to help him deal with the body of his dad - who’s dead now. He told Greg to leave the gun - Flints’s gun. Because he plans to take the fall for the murder. Isobel thinks that’s nonsense. She calls Michelle and when Michelle gets there, she reveals that she knows about aliens and that Jesse has been hunting them and she says that she’ll take care of Jesse for them. 

Alex is overwhelmed and as that’s being taken care of, they get a call from Greg - the kid is okay. She was tied up in the shed, but she’s okay. They want to know if Alex is okay. Isobel tells Alex to have the guys meet at her house - she has a big house and she’ll take Alex back with her and they'll all meet there to talk. She’ll even make coffee. Flint can even bring the kid. Alex tells his bros and they agree.

Isobel makes coffee then gets an update from Kyle - Michael is concussed and refusing acetone, but otherwise okay. What happened is a little hazy to him, but now he’s mostly tired so Kyle is going to make sure he gets some rest. Michael just keeps asking if Alex is okay. He won’t sleep until Kyle calls Alex so Michael can hear that he’s fine. Then Michael is out for the night. 

When Michael wakes up in the morning, Alex is there to talk to him. They talk and Michael is still a little hazy, but he’s glad Alex and everyone else is okay. He asks about Flint and Alex tells him what happened. Alex finally gets to have the convo he's been wanting to have with Michael - he's not in a relationship with Forrest. They went on a few dates and had some fun, but decided to just be friends. Alex has never stopped being in love with Michael - Michael confesses that he feels the same. Alex asks if maybe they should give things a real try this time. Michael agrees, but asks if they can wait a couple days. He's going to hit his 90 days sober mark in 2 days - that's 12 weeks sober. It's a big thing for him since the first 90 days is considered the toughest and has the highest likelihood of failure. Once he gets past 90 days, he wants to try with Alex. Alex is proud of him and they make heart eyes at each other.

Another evening they come back to Isobel’s house - she hosts - and Flint brings his kid. Michael meets her and she wants to touch his hair - she calls it ‘bouncy’. Michael tells her that he thinks her hair is pretty cool too. Then she hugs him and says that she likes him. (he wonders if Flint is really her dad)

Flint apologizes to him and says that his dad lied to him. He mentions how his dad took Michael from a freaking churro booth of all things and how Isobel immediately moved to help him find his kid - something Jesse never would’ve done. That told him all he needed to know about who was on the right side.

Redeemed Flint, FTW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! <3


End file.
